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THE 


LADIES’ COMPANION, 

AND 


LITERARY EXPOSITOR; 


A MONTHLY 

MAGAZINE 


C X N a 


EVERT DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE. 


-EMBELLISHED WITH- 

ORIGINAL ENGRAVINGS, AND MDSIO 


ft 

AR1U.N0E1> FOR THE PIANO FORTE, HARP AND GUITAR. 


NEW-TOEK. 

WILLIAM W. SNOWDEN. 

1844! 


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INDEX TO THE TWENTITEH VOLUME 


IU 


INDEX TO THE TWENTIETH VOLUME. 


FROM OCTOBER 1843, TO -MAY 1844, INCLUSIVE. 

_ 


AP* 

L 25 


A. 

Age, by Miss Charlotte Cushman. 50 

A Tale of the Moors, by 

Miss H. J. Woodman. 134 
Anacreontic, by William Russell, Jr. 143 

A Lover’s Vow, by Mrs. E. C. Embury. 149 
An Englishman in America. 181,224 

A Tribute to the Memory of La Fayette, by 

the late Samuel Woodworth. 211 
American Scenery, by Jerome A. Maybie. 251 
Aspirations, by Henry M. Parsons. 266 

Albania.—The Love-letter. 272 

B. 

Birth-Day of a Daughter, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 39! 


Beauty in Age, by Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 102 
Beauty. 143 

C. 

Counterfeit Presentments, No. 4, 

Benjamin D. Israeli, Esq. 40 
Calumny, by the late Samuel Woodworth. 50 
Counterfeit Presentments, No. 5, 

Lover, author of “ Rroy O’More, Esq.” 81 


Counterfeit Presentments, No. 6, 

Captain Marryatt. 140 

Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmacco— 

Illustrated. 145 

Content—set to music. 268 

D. 

Divine Wisdom, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 144 

Deserted Eden, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 213 

Death of a Clergyman’s Bride, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 249 

E. 

Editors’ Table. 51,103,154„217,269,317 

Earth Papers, by A. Clairevoyante. 233 

Epitaph for the Tomb of Mrs. Louisa A. 

Henry. 312 

G. 

Good Night, Good Night. * 261 

H. 

Hidden Things. 80 

Helen Grey, by Mrs. E. C. Embury. 206 

I. 

Idol Worship, by Mary E. Hewitt. 85 

L. 

Love and Whaling, by Mrs. E. C. Embury. 23 
Lattice Peeping, by Lt. G. W. Patten. 50 


Love is a Parthian. /)/s 76 

Lessons of the Sea, by ^ ** 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 149 
Ligeia, by Henry B. Hirst. 212 

Like Who Trusts to Summer Skies— 

set to Music. 214 

Lilia’s a Lady—set to Music. 315 


Laura Lester, by Miss. G. W. H. George. 303 
M. 

Mozart's Last Request, by 

Mrs. H. M. Parsons. 61 


Mary, a Memory, by Anna Maria Hirst. 151 
Mary Louisa Lenox, by 

Professor J. H. Ingraham. 258 

Monody, by Miss Charlotte Cushman. 263 

Memories, by Mrs. E. M. Sheldon. 266 

Madelaine, by Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 284 

O. 

Origin of Government and Laws. 132 

P. 

Poesy, by E. Delafield Smith. 175 

R. 

Resolves and Results, by Mrs. E. C. Embury. 72 
Ruth and Boaz—illustrated. 109 

S. 

Song—the Inconstant, by Mrs. E. C. Embury.50 
Silk Culture—illustrated. 57 

Summer Excursions from London, by 


Mrs. E. R. Steele. 67,119,238,290 

Sonnet—Youth, by Miss Charlotte Cushman. 70 
Specimens from the Greek Tragedians, by 

William Henry Herbert. 86 


Sonnet. 99 

Sonnet—Manhood, by 

Miss Charlotte Cushman. 135 

Sonnets to the Poets, by Henry B. Him. 150 
Sonnet To —, by J. A. Maybie. 189 

Song, by Mrs. E. C. Embury. 193 

Stanzas, by Maria Del Occidente. 249 

Sonnet,—Autumn, by Thomas L. Harris. 251 
Sonnet to a Poet, by Thomas L. Harris. 252 

Scene from a Tragedy, by 

Isaac Clarke Pray. 262 

Stanzas, by William Russell, Jr. 263 

Sonnet, by Mrs. H. M. Parsons. 264 

Sonnet.—Coeur Land, by Hemry B. Hirst. 289 
T. 

The Stolen Child—illustrated. 5 

Twilight Musings, by Mrs. E. M. Sheldon. 9 
The Heir of Wilton Place, 

by Mrs. Caroline Onto. 10 


771 


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IV 


INDEX TO THE TWENTIETH VOLUME. 


The Bridal Party—illustrated. 15 

The Covered Dish, by 

Professor J. H. Ingraham. 16 
The Rose and the Tomb, by Mary E. Hewitt. 29 
The Romance of Carolina, by 

William Gilmore Simms. 29,61 
The Pilgrim, by the Rev. J. H. Clinch. 39 
The Burning, by 

the Rev. William B. Tappan. 47 
’Tis Then I’ll Think of Thee, by 

William Russell, Jr. ib 

To a Plant at Sea, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, ib 
The Deserted Isle—set to Music. 48 

The Escape, by Mrs. Caroline Orne. 58 

To a Young Widow, by 

the late Samuel Woodworth. 67 
The Old Mansion, by 

Professor J. H. Ingraham. 70 

The Thales of Paris. 77 

The Sister’s Farewell—illustrated. 80 

The Maniac. 89 

The Ferryman, by J. A. Beckett. ib 

T.he Debtor, by 

the late Samuel Woodworth. 99 

The Early Dead, by 

Jerome A. Maybie. 99 

The Happy Home, by William G. Howard, ib 
The Sacrifice, by Mary S. Lawson. 102 

The Broken Arrow, by 

William Gilmore Simms. 110 

ToM- H9 

To Maria, by the late Samuel Woodworth. 124 
The Carnival, by Professor J. H. Ingraham. 125 
The Lesson of Omar, by Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 128 
The Mysteries of Paris, a tale. 130 

The Bridal Robe, by 

Mrs. Emma C. Embury. 136 

The Bunker Hill Monument, by 

Dr. William Bowen. 144 

The Merry Sleigh, by 

Lieutenant G. W. Patten. 147 


The Arrival, by Mrs. Sarah A. Cunningham, ib 


The Twins, by 

the Reverend William G. Howard. 148 

To Miss S. S-, by 

John C. M’Cabe, M. D. 149 

The Beauty of England—illustrated. 171 

The Week-day Moralist, by 

William Gilmore Simms. 172 

The Sea, The Mighty Deep, by 

John C. M. Cabe. M. D. 174 
The Link of Union, by 

Professor J. H. Ingraham. 178 

Tribute to the Memory of Mrs. Louisa A. 

Henry, by John C. M’Cabe, M. D. 181 
The Parisian Chronicler; or, Gossip. 193 


To- 196 

The Robber in “ Boots,” by 

Professor J. H. Ingraham. ib 

To the Albatross, by Henry M. Parsons. 204 
Troubled with the Nightmare—illustrated. 205 
The Rain-drop, by 

Miss Charlottte Cushman. 211 

The Owl, by Anna Maria Hirst. 212 

The Artist by the Dead, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 213 

The Portrait—illustrated. 223 

The Suicide. 

The Messenger Bird, by A. M. Walcott. * 233 
The King of the Upper Sea, by 

W. C. Elleck. 237 

To Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, by 

Mrs. E. M. Sheldon. 242 

The Disowned Daughter, by J. B. Foster. 243 

The Privilege. 253 

The Child’s Inquiry, by 

Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud. 264 

The Poet Captive. 265 

To the Windah Bird, by Henry B. Hirst. 267 
The Gathered Flower, by Mercutio. ib 

The Lover’s Complaint, by 

William Russell, Jr. 275 

The Privilege. 276 

The Frenzy of Love. 287 

The Clouds, by the Rev. William G. Howard. 296 
The Human Mind, by 

Mrs. E. M. Sheldon. 310 

The First Loss—illustrated. 311 

The Example, by Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 312 
The Bride’s Soliloquy, by 

Mrs. E. M. Sheldon. 313 

The Unrequited^ 

Lieute "-fatten. ib 

The Liberated' ;i, by 

Mr. Lycfia H. Sigourney. 314 

To a Robin, by Henry M. Parsons. ib 

U. 

Unrest, by William Warberton. , 150 

V. 

Valley of the Connecticut—illustrated. 133 

Valse de la Fille du Regiment- 

set to Music. 152 

W. 

Westminster Hall, by 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney. 85 

When Evening Steals O’er Me— 

set to Music. 100. 


Washington, by William Gilmore Simms. 297 


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THE LADIES’ COMPANION. 


NEW-YOBK, NOVEMBER, 1 8 4 3. 


Original. 

THE STOLEN CHILD. 

BT e. e. FOSTER. 

An announcement in a daily newspaper, a few 
Weeks since, of the arrival at Baltimore of a 
family of genuine gipsies from Europe,—the 
first, as was stated, of these notorious people who 
had ever visited America,—brought to my recol¬ 
lection certain events which occurred not many 
yeara back, in the vicinity of the Alleghany 
Mountains, in which a tribe of wanderers, 
strongly resembling the gipsies of England, bore 
a conspicuous part. 

The existence of this gang of lawless despera¬ 
does in the fastnesses of the Alleghanies was, 
for a long time, stoutly denied, even by the inhabi¬ 
tants in the immediate vicinity of their opera¬ 
tions ; but a series of the most bold and adroit 
robberies, executed with such skill and secresy as 
to baffle the keenest scrutiny, at length aroused 
the local magistrates to the necessity of some 
more vigorous and systematic researches; and, 
aided by the citizens of the neighborhood, a 
voluntary patrol was established, and the most 
thorough measures instituted, to discover these 
dreaded and secret foes of the general welfare. 
Notwithstanding, however, all this, thefts and j 
robberies continued to be as frequent and as 
audacious as ever. When, by some act of more 
than usual temerity, public attention was direct¬ 
ed to one quarter of the neighborhood, and 
the watchfulness of all was concentrated there, 
another deed of still more astounding atrocity 
would be enacted at a distant and unprotected 
point,—throwing the vigilance of the inhabitants 
completely at fault, and striking all with appre¬ 
hension and dismay. 

It was the day after the dwelling of one of the 
wealthiest citizens of the little village of L—— 
had been broken open, during the absence of the 
family at afternoon service, and robbed of nearly 
every thing of value that could be easily removed, 
that a hurried meeting of the neighbors congre¬ 
gated simultaneously at the only inn the place 
contained, to deliberate anew upon what was best 
to be done for the protection of their property. 
As yet, no lives had been taken by the robbers; 
but, from the reckless and daring nature of their 
acts, it could scarcely be doubted that they 
1 


would not hesitate to add murder to their crimes, 
should occasion tempt them to its commission; 
and every brow was clothed with the deepest 
anxiety,—while the women, who clustered fear¬ 
fully around their natural protectors, shared the 
general terror, and still further distracted the 
minds of father, brother and husband, with their 
pitiable lamentations. 

Amongst those who, either by position, long 
residence, or natural force of character, which is 
ever sure to display itself unconsciously in all 
public emergencies, were looked up to as leading 
men in our heretofore quiet and peaceful village, 
Edward Lawton, a young lawyer from Baltimore, 
who had settled at L— some four years pre¬ 
vious to the period of which we are writing, was 
conspicuous. He was a young man of most 
exemplary character, of great skill and knowl¬ 
edge in his profession, and highly amiable in his 
intercourse with others. His wife was one of 
the most beautiful and bewitching creatures 
upon whom the sun ever shone. She was a 
mother, as the brilliant and joyous face of a little 
boy, some three years old, which constantly 
attended her, wherever she went, like a pictured 
shadow of herself in miniature, sufficiently testi¬ 
fied ; yet to see her alone, one would scarce be¬ 
lieve that the bright season of her girlhood had 
more than just begun. She was such a creature 
as a sudden ray of spring sunshine, bursting 
through the shadow of the trees, as if awakened 
by the song of birds, would make, could you 
suddenly catch and condense it into a human 
form. Her laugh taught the soul what deep 
and thrilling melody lay at the heart of all things 
true and beautiful. Her smile was like the with¬ 
drawing of a curtain from a bright and sunny 
picture. The voice of her song seemed to set 
invisible bells ringing in the air; and her eyes 
echoed the deep splendor of the calm blue sky. 

They wete, in truth, a happy family,—that 
brave and noble-hearted father, with his sweet 
wife and child; and all the people of L—, 
from the highest to the lowest, loved them with 
a deep affection, partaking of that worship which 
the most untutored heart instinctively pays to 
the pure and lovely. The presence of Edward 
Lawton shed warmth and kindliness into every 
heart wherever he appeared ; and many was the 
misunderstanding between his neighbors—whiclv 


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6 


TUB STOLEN CHILD. 


under the advice of some in his profession, would 
have grown to deadly hostility,—that had been 
amicably and peaceably made up through his 
instrumentality. His wife was the idol of all. 
Men bowed low and reverently as she passed, 
and the eye of the village maiden grew brighter 
where she came, and the old crones and gossips 
forgot their tea and tattle, if she entered, and 
seemed suddenly young and green-hearted again, 
under the beautiful magic of her presence. 

But her boy,—her little Edward! He was 
indeed the “ cynosure ” of all eyes and hearts. 
There was not a gray-headed grandfather in the 
village who did not bless him and hug him to 
his old heart, at least a dozen times a week,— 
not a dame or a mother, old or young, who did 
not regard him with an affection at least equal to 
that she entertained for her own offspring,—so 
had his sunny beauty and his winning and grace¬ 
ful ways endeared him to the hearts of all. 

If the young Edward was thus the loved and 
idolized of all the village, he was to his mother 
as the very breath of life,— the sign of Heaven 
itself to her full and happy heart. So strong 
were the ties which bound him to her soul that 
she trembled with apprehension, and turned pale, 
if he was but an instant from her side. Her eyes, 
she said, saw nothing but darkness when he was 
away from her. The doting husband sometimes 
rallied her upon this excessive fondness; and 
used to tell her, with a happy tear trembling 
under each quivering eye-lid, that he should 
soon be jealous of his boy, at the rate things 
were going on ; and that, if she could not make 
up her mind to —. But at this point he was 
always stopped In his argument by a pair of the 
whitest and softest arms any were out of Para¬ 
dise, thrown about his neck, and the dewey flash¬ 
ing of a sweet mouth, thrilling his very soul with 
the fragrant flame of love, and then sealing all 
with a kiss. 

“ Ah!” he would reply with a mischievous 
smile, while his blushing wife hid her face in his 
bosom, “ I am no longer jealous. You may 
love half-a-dozen creatures like little Edward, if 
you will!” 

A short time previous to the period of which 
we are writing, an incident of a peculiar and 
startling nature occurred to Mrs. Lawton, to 
which it is necessary to allude. Her husband 
was absent, attending court in a village some 
few miles distant, and she was alone with her 
child, trying by one innocent device and another 
to wile away the weary time. In the evening, 
just as she had sung the night-song to her little 
Edward, and kissed him into rosy slumbers, and 


had taken her seat by the open window, looking 
out into the bright moonlight that streamed 
upon the lawn, she was suddenly startled by the 
shadow of a man which rapidly passed the window 
and disappeared. Rising in alarm, she approach¬ 
ed the door for the purpose of fastening it against 
intruders, when it was opened, and a tall, good- 
looking man stood in the entrance. His face 
was eminently clear and finely chiseled, yet its 
sharp, Grecian outline, and the curve of the lips, 
bespoke the reckless adventurer and the heart¬ 
less libertine ; and Caroline started back with an 
exclamation of terror, as she recognized the well 
known face of a young man of very equivocal 
reputation, who, however, managed by some 
means, to retain a kind of footing in respectable 
society in Baltimore, previous to her marriage, 
and who had once had the audacity to make 
proposals for her hand, and avow for her an 
unutterable attachment. His offer was spurned, 
with something of disgust in her manner; for 
pure and gentle bosoms carry within themselves 
an infallible touchstone, which instantly teaches 
its possessor to shrink abhorred from the pollu¬ 
ted breath of the libertine. Her astonishment at 
his boldness, (for they were but very slightly 
acquainted,) found vent in words of bitterness 
unusual with the fair Caroline,—for the whole 
force of her nature was aroused at the insult 
which she felt the offers of such a man must 
needs imply. He left her with a smile,—and an 
oath that he would be revenged. But she saw 
no more of him, and he and his threat were 
gradually forgotten. 

“ Good evening, Mistress Lawton,” said the 
man, boldly advancing into the room, and bow¬ 
ing low to the terrified woman, who retreated 
quickly before him towards the door of the room 
where slept her treasure. “ I see you are some¬ 
what surprized at my unceremonious visit; but 
the necessity is urgent, and time presses. So, 
pray be seated.” 

“ Mr. Ashby, what mean you, sir, by this 
ungentlemanly intrusion? You must be aware 
of my husband’s absence, or you would not dare 
thus to insult me with your presence. Leave 
the house, sir, instantly !” 

“ Not so fast, my pretty chicken!” returned 
Ashby, carelessly lolling upon the sofa. “ I have 
arrived at desperate straits, owing to your un¬ 
gracious refusal of me, which broke my heart, 
and led me into dissipation and all sorts of 
ungodly revelry, by which I have spent my 
money, and been forced, like a skilful general, 
to fall back into the interior for supplies. I want 
money, and I must have it. You must provide 


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THB STOLEN CHILD. 


7 


me. Nay, never make up that pretty mouth as 
if you were going to scream,—I have taken good 
care that there is nobody within hearing. Come, 
my old flame,—I don’t wish to alarm you unne¬ 
cessarily. Fork over the rhino, and you shall be 
freed from my presence. How much have you 
got?” 

Caroline was thunderstruck; but the same 
natural instinct which teaches the poor simple 
bird to be wise and cunning in leading you away 
from her young, served the mother in this crisis. 
Rising with as much calmness as she could 
assume, she said, 

“Your conduct, sir, is at least very unequi¬ 
vocal, and there is no necessity for misunder¬ 
standing you. Being completely in your power, 
I obey you. Rest a moment, and whatever 
money may be in the house, is yours.” 

The eyes of the villain sparkled. “ That’s 
reasonable, now,” said he, “ and shows that you 
are a sensible woman. What an excellent wife 
you would have made for me! But, quick! 
There is no time to lose. I am as anxious to 
avoid an alarm as you can be. Hurry !” 

Caroline went to the door of her chamber, 
where her husband’s private cabinet was placed, 
and camly shutting herself in, took out a pair of 
pistols, which she knew were always kept loaded; 
and, carefully cocking them, she opened the 
door, and, holding one of them firmly in each 
hand, boldly presented herself before her visitor. 

“Now, sir,” said she, “leave the house, instantly, 
or your death is certain ; for a mother, watching 
over the safety of her child, has a hand as firm 
and sure as the stoutest hero on the battle-field. 
Go—or you shall find it so.” 

The rascal turned pale with fear, and, with a 
look of mingled shame, rage and unutterable 
hate, turned and left the room. Caroline stood 
on the threshold, watching his receding form, 
until she could no longer distinguish it in the 
moonlight, and then, closing and locking the 
door and fastening the windows, she fell into a 
chair and wept in joy and gratitude for her 
deliverance—for she feared, and with too much 
reason, that had Ashby gained his point, and 
obtained the money, his demands would not 
have stopped there. 

Next morning Lawton returned; and, amidst 
a world of tears and smiles and caresses, and a 
thousand pretty interruptions from little Edward, 
who “sept all alone wiv mamma,”—the adven¬ 
ture of the night was talked over—the noble 
presence of mind displayed by his wife duly 
thanked by the proud and happy husband, and a 


solemn promise made that he would never leave 
her again alone. 

This incident, which had never been men¬ 
tioned to the neighbors, from a wish to escape 
their good-natured idle gossip, was soon for¬ 
gotten. On the day we have already mentioned, 
however, and while the meeting of the citizens 
was going on at the little inn, Mrs. Lawton, who 
had gone with the rest of the women to an 
adjoining apartment, thought she had caught a 
glimpse of Ashby, hanging about the outskirts of 
the little crowd, roughly disguised as a wood¬ 
cutter, and apparently lurking about in the 
capacity of spy. A light broke upon her; and, 
sending immediately for her husband, she com¬ 
municated her suspicions that Ashby was the 
ringleader of the outrages which had been 
recently committed in the neighborhood. Law- 
ton agreed with her, and said he should imme¬ 
diately take measures to have the man arrested. 

“ But where is Edward ?” he inquired. 

“ In his little crib at home, fast asleep, the 
darling,” replied the wife; and then, as if a 
sudden thought had struck her, she exclaimed, 

“ Good God, Edward! Suppose he should have 
stolen our child ?” and she flew rather than ran 
—followed by her husband, who entered his 
wife’s chamber, in time to see her fall lifeless 
across the empty crib of little Edward ! 

* • • • * 

And now, madam, if you will turn to the 
exquisite picture at the beginning of this number 
of the “ Companion,” you will see our dear little 
Edward, far away from his heart-broken mother, 
and his distracted father, clad in his holiday 
clothes, and jaunty hat and feather, (which the 
quick eye of the robber had sought as he bore 
him away,) and surrounded by a group, strange 
enough, certainly, to an American eye, yet a 
true transcript of a scene which actually existed, 
not many years back, in a beautiful ravine in the 
Alleghany Mountains, not far from the magnifi¬ 
cent Susquehannah. So well has our artist 
done his part, and so graphically embodied the 
scene, that our own description of it would be 
superfluous, and we have accordingly cut away 
several pages of our manuscript. He is listening 
in delight to his captor, who is strumming to 
him, on an old fiddle, and telling him that 
“ mamma will come pretty soon,”—while a 
rough-looking urchin, about his own age, is 
examining with delighted wonder the rich 
locket about his neck, and the mother, (but not 
wife,) looks on with a smile of vague abstraction, 
yet somewhat mingled with interest—as if she 


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e 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


were contrasting her own unkempt cub with the 
beautiful stranger. 

I am not going to describe in detail the en¬ 
campment of these modern gipsies; as that has 
been already pretty well done in a book called 
44 Paul Ulrick,” I believe, which was printed 
{but never sold,) some years since in Philadel¬ 
phia. Those who have any curiosity on the 
subject, may disinter this volume from the dust 
beneath which it is very quietly reposing, and 
gratify it to the full. We must on wii our 
story. 

44 Come, Bessy,” said the chief of this wild 
and uncouth, yet not unpicturesque party, 
44 what have you got for supper? The old 
crones there, I see, are enjoying themselves 
already, and I feel a great disposition to follow 
their example. Here, my little hero, give me 
your hand, and we’ll have something nice to 
eat, and then to bed.” 

Ashby had made a bold move: but the excite¬ 
ment amongst the citizens had warned him that 
the neighborhood would soon be no place for 
the rendezvous of his gang, and he had deter¬ 
mined to gain possession of Lawton’s child, 
make his own terms for its ransom, and then 
decamp with his booty to some other part of the 
country. How successful his scheme had been, 
thus far, we have already seen; and he waited 
with anxiety the approach of midnight, when he 
intended to seek the residence of Lawton, and 
make his treaty for the return of the child, if he 
found that he could discover himself with safety. 

Upon discovering the loss of their darling 
child, grief and despair the most overwhelming, 
took absolute possession of the wretched parents. 
They had little doubt as to his fate—as the ap¬ 
pearance of Ashby in the village, and his previous 
visit to Lawton’s wife, rendered the whole affair 
too clear. In accents of the most piercing 
anguish the unhappy mother reproached her¬ 
self for having left her precious charge for a 
single moment, while the father exerted all his 
eloquence to soothe her agony and inspire hopes 
which he could not feel. The neighbors, upon 
learning the sad event, flocked in a body to Mr. 
Lawton’s, offering their services in any way he 
might direct. Scouts were sent out in every 
direction, and the bereaved father himself, ac¬ 
companied by his wife and a number of faithful 
friends, started for the forest, determined to! 
scour every rood of the wide wilderness ere they 
would give up their search. 

For a long time they wandered on in silence 
deep and melancholy—broken but by the crack¬ 
ling of dried leaves, or the meeting of parted 


branches—the delicate mother tramping stoutly 
on, side by side with the foremost, with her fine 
neck outstreched to catch the smallest sound, 
and her bright eyes glittering with the intense¬ 
ness of her gaze, as if she would penetrate the 
darkness and pluck from the innermost recesses 
of the forest a glimpse of the lost and beloved 
one. 

Suddenly a gleam of light shot up from behind 
the brow of a hill, and a low sound of voices 
came borne on the night-wind. 

“Hush, for your lives!” exclaimed Lawton, 
in a whisper. 44 We are close upon them, or my 
hopes deceive me. God grant that my child is 
safe!” 

The mother held her breath, lest she should 
shriek out in the intenseness of her agitation; 
and creeping cautiously through the thick and 
tangled underbrush, that tore her tender feet, or 
pierced her delicate frame at every step, the 
whole party at length stood on the top of the 
little eminence, and looking down a deep and 
dark ravine, beheld a scene that held them spell¬ 
bound and breathless. 

Around a brisk fire sat Ashby and Bessy, and 
a gang of fierce and reckless looking men, dis¬ 
guised as wood-cutters. Ashby had laid aside 
his fiddle, and now held a bottle in his hand, 
from which he was trying to make a little child 
upon his knee, drink. 

44 Thank God, thank God !” at this moment 
wildly exclaimed the overjoyed mother, as she 
recognized her own darling boy, and prepared to 
spring towards him—but was forcibly detained by 
her husband, who caught her by the arm, and 
whispered nervously to his companions, 14 Stand 
by me now, dear friends, in God’s name !” 

The quick ear of the robber had detected the 
mother’s exclamation; and, gazing through the 
shadow until his eye had become accustomed to 
the darkness beyond the glare of the fire, he de¬ 
tected the intruders, and sprang to his feet, 
bearing the child aloft in his arms. 

41 Advance at your peril,” he shouted; 44 for, 
by the living God! if you do, the child dies on 
the instant. Although I am discovered, I will 
yet thwart you, most hated woman, and more 
hateful husband ! Beware, I say !” 

The little Edward, frightened at his position, 
now screamed in terror,—the other members 
of the robbers’ party gathered round, and the 
mother, overcome by horror, fainted and fell 
lifeless upon the ground. It was a critical 
moment, and nobly did Lawton bear himself. 
Drawing a pistol from his bosom, he took dilibe- 
rate aim at the head of the robber, knowing that 


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THE HEIR OF WILTON PLACE. 


9 


the quiver of a muscle might destroy a life more 
precious than his own heart’s blood,—and fired. 

Down dropped the robber, suffering little 
Edward to glide harmlessly to the ground, 
through his relaxed arms, while his comrades, 
crowding for a moment around their fallen 
leader, fled in wild panic, followed by two old 
women, cursing and gibbering as they went, and 
leaving Bessy where she had thrown herself with 
a scream across the body,—while Lawton, bear¬ 
ing his wife in his arms, rushed towards his child, 
who sprang with a gay laugh to meet them. 

Lawton’s party now divided, and went in pur¬ 
suit of the fugitives, and eventually succeeded in 
capturing several of them, who were subsequently 
punished, and this “ den of thieves ” effectually 
broken up; while our “happy family,” thus 
providentially restored to each other, returned in 
gladness to their desolate home, kindly taking 
with them Bessy and her child, and around the 
dear, re-lighted hearth-stone, made themselves 
merry and sad by turns, over the adventures and 
escape of the stolen child. 


Original. 

TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 

MY MRS. E. M. SHELDON. 

The fierce storm-spirit’s winf 
Sweeps darkly o’er the earth, 

And clouds of sorrow fling 
Shadows upon our mirth. 

Our trusted ones betray, 

Severed are dearest ties, 

Life’s joys are borne away 
Like dew-drops to the skies. 

And yet the path we tread, 

Jehovah’s bounteous care, 

Above, around hath spread 
With sweets that cluster there. 

He gives the sun’s bright beams, 
Fragrance of op’ning flowers, 

The murmuring of streams, 

And pensive twilight hours; 

The sacred sweets of home, 

By true affection bless’d, 

Where no intruders come, 

And weary ones can rest; 

And though the chast’ning rod 
Boweth our spirits down— 

Loved kindred go to God, 

And even nature frown— 

One star of changeless ray 
Hath our kind father given, 

To light our lonely way, 

And guide to rest in Heaven. 


Or igiasl. 

THE HEIR OF WILTON PLACE. 


BT MRS. CAROLINE ORNE. 


“ Not unrejoiced to see him once sgain, 

Wsrra was his welcome.*'— Leara. 

CHAPTER I. 

Many years have elapsed since a hoary pile, 
long since gone to decay, which we will designate 
by the fictitious name of Seaford Castle, crowned 
a steep and bold headland on the western coast 
of Great Britain. This eminence, when seen 
from the water, presented a wild, irregular mass 
of rocks, apparently piled together during some 
convulsion of nature, and their base being con¬ 
stantly lashed by a heavy surge, that sent up 
showers of spray over their dark and weather¬ 
beaten sides, the whole formed a picture of wild 
and gloomy grandeur—especially in the dim 
twilight or the rays of an unclouded moon, highly 
impressive to the imagination. There was no 
point, owing to the abruptness of the coast, near 
the foundations of the castle, where a boat could 
have effected a landing, even when the winds 
were at rest, and the ocean was calm, but on the 
southerly side of this sea-beaten promontory 
there was a small cave of clear, smooth water, 
capable of sheltering half a dozen fishing boats 
at a time. The coast here, as on the opposite 
side of the promontory, was bold and abrupt, 
except at the head of the cave, where there was 
a strip of hard, smooth beach, and on which the 
water broke in silvery ripples, even the shrill 
whistle of the sea-blast could be distinctly heard 
in the distance. Many a broad acre, subject to 
the most skilful husbandry of the time, with 
plenty of pasturage, besides forest and park, 
made the estate of Lord Seaford the most 
valuable in the country, if we except that of his 
nearest neighbor, Sir Andrew Wilton. The 
more comfortable, though less imposing mansion 
of the latter was situated on a spot less elevated, 
sheltered from the chilling sea-breeze by a thick 
grove of evergreens, so that when the wind was 
howling round the corners of the castle with a 
fury that might have endangered a less massive 
structure, the more humble edifice was snugly 
reposing beneath, like a bird in its comfortable 
nest. 

Lord Seaford had always entertained the 
warmest friendship for Sir Andrew, and when 
visited by his last illness, he requested him to 
write to his son, who had been absent on the 
Continent several years, to hasten home. He 
obeyed the summous, but did not reach home 


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10 


THE HEIR OF WILTON PLACE. 


’till his parent had been dead several weeks. 
There had; from time to time, been vague 
rumors, during his absence, that he was engaged 
in wild and lawless adventures, but on his return, 
all were eager to welcome the son and successor 
of one so esteemed and beloved as the late Lord 
Seaford. 

In stature, he was below the middling height, 
and naturally of a complexion femininely fair, 
though, at present, somewhat sunburnt. His 
features, like his complexion, were handsome 
and delicate as a beautiful woman’s, shaded with 
soft hair of a bright golden color; a style of 
beauty, which, while it took the fancy of the fair 
and the younger portion of the community, 
caused several of the older dames to shake their 
heads, and whisper among themselves that it was 
no good sign for one of the bolder sex to have 
the small and delicate features of a gentlewoman, 
and that he would one day show himself to be a 
kite in the dove’s plumage. There was nothing, 
however, in his deportment to warrant such a pre¬ 
diction, it being in every respect, irreproachable. 
There was a frankness in his manners, either real 
or pretended, that at times approached to blunt¬ 
ness, in hi9 intercourse with his own sex, while 
towards the other, he assumed an affability and 
deference, equally winning and flattering. 

Sir Andrew Wilton had an only daughter, a 
sweet, fairy-like creature, who at the time of the 
young Lord Seaford’s return, was just sixteen. 
A complexion pure as the lily, a profusion of 
light brown hair, eyes the color of a June sky, 
lips like rosebuds steeped in dew, with arms 
and hands of unrivalled symmetry, formed the 
elements of her beauty, to which great sweetness 
of disposition and her still child-like simplicity 
gave an indescribable charm. 

Sir Andrew had likewise received into his 
family the widow of his only son, who in the 
pride of health, and strength had fallen a victim 
to sudden disease, and her child, a boy six years 
old. The young widow was a very lovely woman, 
with finely chiselled features, and a clear, pearly 
complexion of a hue so healthy that the absence 
of the rose, could not be regretted. Though 
scarcely above the middling height, she appeared 
almost stately by the side of Catharine Wilton, 
her sister-in-law, and her mild and quiet manners 
accorded with the antique style of her beauty. 
Among the young and the fair, she was the only 
one, who did not regard the young Lord Seaford 
with pleasure and admiration. It was probably 
her keen powers of discrimination, which was 
subsequently imputed by some to an intuitive 
perception, and a habit of close observation 


acquired by mixing freely in society, that led her 
to trace a chain of circumstances, of themselves 
slight and unimportant, which made her recoil 
from him with a feeling of aversion amounting to 
horror. He, on his part, though a professed 
admirer of beauty, appeared, after a few inter¬ 
views, to avoid her with an instinctive feeling of 
dread ; and he shunned encountering her clear, 
serene eye, as if he imagined the mask he wore, 
became transparent beneath its gaze. Still, 
although the opinion she had formed of his 
character, was to herself, perfectly satisfactory, 
it would have been no easy task for her to com¬ 
municate it to another in the same clear and pal¬ 
pable form, and she, therefore, abstained from 
expressing it at all. She soon became aware 
that he was seeking to engage the affections of 
Catharine, and with feelings of alarm spoke to 
her father-in-law upon the subject, at the same 
time venturing to suggest that Lord Seaford was 
not a person likely to promote the happiness of 
his daughter. But, in his opinion, the young 
Lord was a desirable match for her, being the 
owner of a noble estate, contiguous to his own, 
and, as far as he was able to judge, free from that 
recklessness and from those habits of dissipation, 
common to many young men of wealth at that 
period. He told her that he could not think of 
thwarting his motherless child in an affair of the 
heart, and rebuked her with some harshness for 
what he considered her unjust prejudices. Mrs. 
Wilton said no more, and the beautiful girl just 
emerging from childhood, became the wife of 
Lord Seaford. 

She carried gladness and sunshine with her to 
the old castle, and the chill and desolate apart¬ 
ments, which had long been conscious of no 
sound save that of the bleak and hollow blast as it 
came sweeping up from the sea during a tempest, 
were rendered cheerful by the taste and care of 
their young mistress, and i^echoed again to her 
musical laugh; or, the unstudied melody of 
some sweet song. 

Though the vassals of Lord Seaford had long 
been aware that his temper was fiery and impe¬ 
rious, it was many months after their marriage, 
before Catharine witnessed one of his appalling 
outbreaks of passion, and although it was not, as 
in many instances afterwards, directed against 
herself, she was overwhelmed with terror. Sub¬ 
sequently, the fine taste and feeling which are 
apt to accompany a delicate physical organiza¬ 
tion, were outraged by the frequent recurrence of 
his angry mood, and she shrunk from the cares¬ 
sing touch of the lip, which, perhaps, an hour 
before, she had seen covered with the white foam 


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THE HEIR OF WILTOW PLACE. 


II 


of rage, and from the glances of the eye which 
had appeared to emit sparkles of living fire. Her 
health soon began to decline, and a morbid state 
of the imagination ensued, bordering upon 
insanity, so that she sometimes almost fancied, 
when upon the most trivial provocation, she 
beheld him break into a paroxysm of fierce, 
unbridled rage, that she had given herself up to 
the power of a demon, and not to a human being. 
These wild fancies deepened with her physical 
decay, increased still more by often hearing, 
when alone in her chamber, when she knew that 
Lord Seaford had left the castle, sounds of rude 
and boisterous merriment. Once, on opening 
her window to ascertain if possible, whence such 
strange noises could proceed, she distinctly saw 
four wild looking figures, followed by a fifth, 
resembling her husband, emerge as if from the 
solid rock which rose from the water's edge, and 
step into a skiff fastened to a staple. Rapidly 
rounding the head of the promontory, they had 
in a few moments vanished from her sight. 
Diseased both in body and mind, there was 
something in this which strongly appealed to 
her superstitious fears, and from that time she 
was constantly haunted by a vague apprehension 
that her husband was leagued with beings, whose 
power, whoever they might be, exerted over him 
a mysterious and evil influence. Had there been 
any person of a healthy tone of mind, on whom 
she could have bestowed her confidence, diffe¬ 
rent inferences might have been drawn, founded 
more on reason, and less on the imagination. 
But Mrs. Wilton, her sister-in-law, the only 
person of a strong mind unclouded by super¬ 
stition, to whom she would have felt free to 
communicate her thoughts and apprehensions, 
seldom appeared where she would be likely to 
encounter Lord Seaford, and she herself was far 
too feeble to walk the mile which intervened 
between her present abode and the home of her 
childhood, or to undertake to manage one of the 
vicious animals that filled her husband’s stable. 

Lady Seaford’s father, who, for several months, 
had been sinking under a complication of diseases, 
died, having bequeathed the whole of his rich 
possessions, consisting of Wilton Place, and 
several valuable appanages, to his grand-son, 
Frederic Wilton. In case, however, that his 
grand-son should die without heirs, or before he 
attained the age of twenty-one, the estate was to 
go to his daughter and to her heirs, the whole to 
be subject to the control of his well beloved son- 
in-law, Lord Seaford. 

This last clause in his will, would never have 
existed, had he been made acquainted with the 


true character and conduct of his daughter's 
husband; which, out of regard to his declining 
health, had been concealed from him, without 
any anticipation of his investing him with so 
much power, in case of the lineal heir's decease. 
But this was an event which did not seem likely 
to occur. The child's health was perfectly 
good, and being under the control of a strong- 
minded, judicious mother, whose good sense led 
her to adopt those modes of treatment, many of 
which, at the present day, may be gathered from 
books, there appeared to be little chance, that 
Lord Seaford, who already began to drink deep 
of the inebriating cup, would survive him. 

A gleam of mental sunshine alone broke in 
upon the troubled spirit of Lady Seaford, after 
the birth of a daughter. Having looked, for a 
long time, upon its smiling and innocent features, 
she requested to see Mrs. Wilton. 

“ Promise me," said she, when her sister-in* 
law appeared at her bed-side, “ to be a mother to 
my child." 

“ Certainly, my dear Catharine," she replied, 
“ if-" 

“I know what you would say—I must see 
him . Let some one call him." 

When Lord Seaford wa9 told that his wife 
could live only a short time, he hastened to her 
apartment, and softened by the earnestness and 
pathos, with which she urged what he felt was 
her dying request, he promised her that the 
child should be committed to the care of Mrs* 
Wilton. 

“ I can now die in peace,” were the last 
words of the young and broken-hearted wife and 
mother. 

Lord Seaford adhered to his promise, and 
permitted Mrs. Wilton to take the infant, who 
was named Catharine, for her mother, to her own 
home, as it would have been equally unpleasant 
and inconvenient for her to have resided at the 
castle. 

CHAPTER II. 

“ Look o'er thy head Maxiraiao ! 

Look to the terror that o’erhan ?f thee!” 

Bsaumont 4f FUtcktr. 

Several years passed away, and Frederic Wil¬ 
ton, sole heir of the Wilton estates, had grown to 
be a fine, intelligent boy, and of a daring and 
adventurous spirit far beyond his years. Already 
he had learnt to scale many a bold cliff and pre¬ 
cipice, whence he delighted to watch the waves 
breaking into foam against the rocks, and to 
listen to their hoarse music. Nothing could 
tempt him from these, his favorite haunts, when 
released from his studies, except the pleasure of 


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12 


THE HEIR OF WILTON PLACE. 


directing the footsteps of the little Catharine, 
who made healthful by her out-door sports, was 
one of the most buoyant and beautiful children 
that ever revelled on the green sward, or by the 
blue and sunny sea. 

The head of the cove already alluded to, where 
the sea broke in ripples on the hard, smooth 
sand, was his usual place of resort, when Catha¬ 
rine was his companion. Within a natural exca¬ 
vation of the rock, extending a few feet, he had 
made a seat and covered it with moss and con¬ 
cealed the rough sides with beautiful shells, he 
had collected on the shore. Here, alike shel¬ 
tered from sun and wind, Catharine, the summer 
she was four years old, established her favorite 
play-house, and while amusing herself with her 
dolls, Frederic would sit near, busily employed 
in endeavoring to construct a tiny schooner after 
the fashion of one, that had a few months pre¬ 
vious, anchored in the cove, and remained nearly 
a week. 

The schooner, whose crew consisted of a set 
of swarthy, uncouth looking men, who spoke a 
foreign language, occasioned considerable stir 
among the inhabitants of the place. Some 
imagined that she was a pirate, and consulted 
Lord Seaford relative to the propriety of pro¬ 
curing a warrant to arrest the crew, but he 
laughed at their suspicion, as being highly 
absurd and ridiculous, and to give his opinion 
the greater weight, entertained the officers of 
the vessel at his own table. 

Frederic was busy one morning at his nearly 
completed task, and Catharine, weary with her 
play, had fallen asleep, when looking up, he 
beheld opposite the entrance of the cove, a 
vessel that appeared to him to be the same finely 
built schooner of which he was attempting a 
miniature copy. A spy-glass, which he kept in 
Catharine's play-house, through which he loved 
to watch the arrival and departure of the fishing- 
boats, was the next minute in his hand, and bent 
upon the dark-hulled vessel. A minute’s obser¬ 
vation assured him that it was the same, and a 
thrill of pleasure passed through his frame, when 
he saw that she was bearing down towards the 
cove under a full press of canvass, her stern 
sprinkled with the white foam she threw up 
before her, like the breast of the panting war- 
horse, when in the heat of battle. His next 
thought was of the swarthy, savage looking 
crew, and though he feared them not himself, 
he knew that their appearance would frighten 
Catharine. He therefore gently awoke her, and 
telling her it was time to return, led her home, 
and then hastened back to watch the approach of 


the schooner. By this time, it was so near as to 
be distinctly seen with the naked eye, and it was 
not long before reaching the entrance of the 
cove, she shot like an arrow through the deep 
but narrow opening. Instead, however, of 
making for what was considered the most 
commodious place of anchorage, she bore down 
towards a point, where not far distant, the rocky 
precipice projected some forty or fifty feet into 
the water. This precipice, from which shot up 
the turrets of the castle, as if they had been a 
part of it, rose perpendicularly, like a huge 
buttress from the floor of the ocean, except on 
one side, which though sloping steeply, did not 
enough so as to prevent art from assisting nature 
in the formation of a few rude steps, which 
enabled a person to scale the rock to about mid¬ 
height, where there was a kind of shelf more than 
a foot wide. At the bottom of this steep and 
imperfect stair-way, was a boat secured to an 
iron staple inserted in the rock. The attention 
of Frederic had been riveted upon the schooner, 
when suddenly he heard the voice of his uncle. 
Lord Seaford, speaking to the captain of the vessel, 
in a language to him unknown. He was standing 
on the shelf of the precipice just described, and 
the next moment rapidly descending the steps he 
sprang into the boat, and steered for the schooner, 
which had furled her sails and was lying to, 
within a short distance. He was received on 
board, and he and the captain immediately de¬ 
scended to the cabin, where having conversed in 
low but earnest voices, fifteen or twenty minutes, 
they reappeared on deck. 

“ You say that is the boy, who stands on the 
beach, eyeing us so intently," said the captain, 
addressing Lord Seaford. 

“ Yes." 

“ A smart, bold looking little fellow. What if 
we should initiate him into the mysteries of our 
craft, instead of disposing of him in the manner 
you propose ?" 

“No, no,” replied Lord Seaford, “he is old 
enough to remember, and should he be spared, 
he will give me trouble hereafter. A deed done, 
as the proverb says, has an end." 

“True," replied the captain, “but I should 
rather he had been a puny, sickly looking brat, 
such as I expected him to be, from his being 
subject to no control except a mother's. Instead 
of that, he is the finest, most spirited looking boy 
I have seen this many a day. If I could have 
the training of him, in five years from now I 
could trust him with a separate command." 

“ Once for all," said Lord Seaford, “ I tell you 
that the agreement we made in the cabin, must 


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THE H E I ft OF WILTON PLACE. 


13 


be adhered to, to the letter. Promise me this 
upon oath, as I will not now, after what you have 
said, otherwise trust you.” 

“ Take my written oath, if you please,” he 
replied, and taking a piece of paper from his 
pocket-book, he rapidly wrote a few words with 
a pencil, and handed it to him. 

“ That will do,” y said Lord Seaford, “ but 
pencil-marks are easily erased. Will you write 
the same with ink ?” 

“ Yes, with my blood, if it will the better con¬ 
tent you. Carlos, go to the cabin and bring me 
a pen.” 

As he spoke, he drew from his belt a small 
dagger, the haft of which was richly inlaid with 
jewels, and punctured one of the veins of his 
wrist. By this time the boy had arrived with 
the pen, and handed it to the pirate captain, who 
wrote in bloody characters the oath to murder 
with his own hands the beautiful and innocent 
boy, who, fearless of danger, stood regarding 
them from the beach. 

“ That is well,” said Lord Seaford. “ Re¬ 
member, if you violate, there will be no safety 
for you on sea or land. I have others in my pay 
bold and daring as yourself,—they will have 
orders to take care of you.” 

“ I am content it should be so. Let us now 
lure him on board, for we have no time to spare. 
In a few months, if we are in luck, we shall be 
here again with plenty of rich merchandize to 
deposit in the subterranean store-room. I will 
go with you myself, and persuade the boy to 
come aboard.” 

This was a task achieved without difficulty. 
Frederic, as has been suggested, was a spirited, 
adventurous boy, and felt no alarm at the idea of 
going on board of the beautiful vessel in company 
with the captain, who could speak English, and 
addressed him with a familiarity which at once 
overcame a degree of shyness, occasioned by his 
secluded manner of living. The only objection 
he felt to going, was because Lord Seaford 
urged his doing so, for, of late, he had begun to 
regard him with a distrust which might have 
been termed instinctive, his mother having ever 
carefully avoided instilling her own prejudices 
into his mind. 

After examining the novelties that presented 
themselves on deck, he was invited by the cap¬ 
tain to descend to the cabin, where he engaged 
his attention by exhibiting to him many choice 
weapons, and explaining their use. When again 
permitted to go on deck, objects on shore were 
swiftly receding. 

“ Where is my uncle ?” he inquired.. 

2 


“ He has been gone this half hour,” was the 
reply. 

A wild, piercing cry of anguish escaped him, 
and bursting into tears, he threw himself on the 
pirate captain's neck, and entreated him to 
return to the shore. 

“ That I cannot do,” he replied, “ so you may 
as well leave off crying, and make yourself con¬ 
tent.” 

When Frederic saw that he was not to be 
moved, he suddenly checked his tears, and 
placing himself in a situation where he could 
behold the spot containing his mother and 
Catharine, though his heart was almost break¬ 
ing, he maintained a proud silence. Objects on 
shore had long been blended into one undistin- 
guishable mass, yet he moved not, and it was not 
until darkness had come down upon the waters, 
that in obedience to the command of the captain, 
he followed him to the cabin. The captain 
pointed to a settee, and telling him that he might 
rest there, seated himself at a table spread with 
maps and charts. He kept a watchful eye upon 
Frederic, who, by his restlessness, showed that 
he did not sleep. The pirate began to grow 
impatient, but it was nearly midnight, before the 
boy's deep and quiet breathing told him that the 
moment to cancel his oath had arrived. The 
jewel-hafted dagger was by him on the table, 
and first examining its keen and glittering edge, 
he drew near the sleeping boy. He looked very 
beautiful asleep, his red lips slightly parted, and 
his dark brown hair clustering round his fair, 
open brow. The dagger was firmly grasped in 
the pirate’s hand, but while he stood hesitating 
to strike, Frederic, whose slumbers were evi¬ 
dently uneasy, suddenly awoke, and starting up, 
uttered a cry of terror. 

* Oh, I am glad it is you,” said he, throwing 
his arms round the pirate’s neck. “ I dreamed 
that my uncle stood by me with a knife, and 
was going to kill me.” 

The better and more generous feelings of the 
pirate’s nature were touched by the confidence 
with which Frederic regarded him, and from 
that moment his life was safe. 

chapter in. 

“You have cause 

(Po have we all) of joy; for your escitpe 
I. much beyond your less.— Ttmptsl. 

It was a bright day in summer, twelve years 
after the incidents of the preceding chapter, that 
a vessel with all sails set, was seen bearing down 
towards the cove near Seaford Castle. 

u It is the finest-built schooner I have seen 
these dozen years,” said a middle aged man. 


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14 


THE HEIR OF WILTON PLACE. 


addressing his younger companion, and taking 
the spy-glass from his eye. 

“ A dozen years, did you say ?” inquired the 
young man. 

“ Yes, it is twelve years ago this very month, 
since a light-built schooner, with a crew of as 
desperate looking fellows as ever I set my eye 
on, anchored in the cove, and remained nearly a 
week.” 

44 You mean the pirate vessel, don’t you?” 

44 Hush ! If it should come to Lord Seaford’s 
ears, that you called her a pirate vessel, you 
would stand little chance of being appointed 
skipper to the new fishing-boat.” 

“ There is no danger of its coming to his ears, 
and if it did, it is no more than the truth. 
Every one that knew any thing about such 
matters, believed the schooner to be a pirate, 
and the same that old Ben Hanscom saw carry 
off the little Frederic Wilton; and if the truth 
could be found out, I believe Lord Seaford 
would prove to have been at the bottom of it.” 

44 I tell you, Martin, that you must learn to 
carry a more prudent tongue in your head. Let 
us think no more about that business, and watch 
the schooner.” 

44 Let her be from what quarter she will, she 
knows the soundings, for see, she is making for 
the best place of anchorage in the cove. Hand 
me your spy-glass a minute—I want to bend it 
on the fellow who stands at the stern.” 

44 I have been looking at him, and he is as 
smart a looking chap as I have seen this many a 
day, and as trim built as his own schooner, for I 
have no doubt but that he is both captain and 
owner of her.” 

By this time the vessel had cast anchor, and a 
boat being immediately lowered, the young man 
who had been the subject of their remarks, and 
two others habited like common sailors, sprang 
into it, and rowed towards the head of the cove. 
In a few minutes the keel grated upon the hard 
sand, and the young man jumping out, told the 
others to return to the vessel. The two men, 
who had been lounging on a heap of dry sea¬ 
weed, piled in a hollow of the cliff, which was 
in deep shadow, finding that they had not been 
observed by him, suspended their conversation, 
and continued to watch him with great curiosity. 

He was tall, and his dress composed of blue 
broad-cloth of the finest texture, was exactly 
fitted to his remarkably fine form. His hat, 
which was set jauntingly on one side of his head, 
fully revealed his features, which, though sun¬ 
burnt, were eminently handsome. Nothing 
could be finer than the manner in which his 


black, glossy hair clustered round his brow, and 
the expression of his dark, deep-set eyes, while 
his rich, red lips, with their fiue, spirited curve, 
gave to his countenance a look of masculine 
boldness and energy which first impressed the 
persons who were watching him, with the idea 
that he was the commander of the vessel. On 
nearer inspection, they began to imagine that he 
might be some still higher personage than the 
captain of a schooner, his linen being ornamented 
with lace rubles, and one of his fingers being 
encircled by a ring enriched with a gem, which 
they took to be a genuine diamond. His stock¬ 
ings, were evidently silk, and his shoes of Spanish 
leather, were cut so low as to display to advan¬ 
tage the arched instep of his small foot, similar, 
according to the chronicler, to that of Henry II., 
the first Plantagenet of England. 

The first thing he did, after touching the 
shore, was to take a look into the grotto which 
had been Catharine’s play-house. Every thing 
was in the same situation as when Frederic 
Wilton was enticed on board the pirate-vessel, 
except that the moss-covered seat, that used 
then to accommodate a large wax doll and her 
family, during Catharine’s absence, was now 
strewn with several neatly bound volumes. At 
this moment, his ear caught the tones of a sweet 
and earnest voice. 

“ Oh, aunt Wilton,” it said, “ what if he should 
be in the vessel. How well I can remember him, 
although I was only foui years old when he was 
carried away. Do not you think it possible he 
may be there ?” 

“ No, Catharine,” was the reply. “ If his life 
has been spared, we should have heard tidings 
of him long before now.” 

She had scarcely finished speaking, before the 
young man sprang lightly into the path by which 
they were descending, stood before them. Twelve 
years of absence had not wrought such an alte¬ 
ration in his features but that the mother knew 
her son. 

“ I knew that you were my mother by your 
voice,” said he, after the first gush of emotion 
had passed away, “ for its tones have ever been 
with me. It has warned, soothed and comforted 
me, and at length, again lured me to these 
shores.” 

44 Innocent as when you left them ?” said his 
mother, a cloud of doubt and anxiety settling on 
her brow, as she recalled to mind the supposed 
character of the vessel which had conveyed him 
away. 

44 With perfect truth, I can say,—yes. The 
pirate-vessel soon fell in with a British ship-of- 


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THE HEIR OP WILTON PLACE. 


15 


war, sent in search of her, and was taken after a 
sharply contested engagement, in which the 
captain and two thirds of the crew were slain. 
The schooner was carried into port, converted 
into a merchantman, and I am now the com¬ 
mander.” 

As he was making this explanation, his eyes 
frequently turned towards Catharine, who, beau¬ 
tiful as an unfolding rose-bud, was just hovering 
on the verge of womanhood. There still linger¬ 
ed on her fair brow the innocence of early child¬ 
hood, and her eyes, when she smiled, were the 
same sunny hazle, but there was, at times, a i 
thoughtful earnestness in their clear orbs, as 
they half veiled themselves beneath their dark 
lashes, which showed that many of the richer 
and deeper feelings of her heart, that had slept 
like the waveless waters of the fountain, were 
beginning to be stirred. He felt that it was not 
the same affection gushing back upon his spirit 
with which he used to regard her, which now 
pervaded his heart,—it was a new impulse,— 
more exalted and more fervent, yet far more 
fervent, yet far more tender. 

As they walked towards Wilton Place, Fre¬ 
deric inquired for Lord Seaford. Before his 
mother had time to answer him, a person on 
horseback was seen hurrying towards them. 
He checked his horse to tell them that Lord 
Seaford was taken in a fit, and that he was going 
for a physician. Catharine turned pale, and said 
that she must hasten to her father. 

“ No,” replied Mrs. Wilton, “ I will go first, 
and if best, I will send for you.” 

“ We will wait here,” said Frederic. j 

In fifteen minutes, Mrs. Wilton returned much 
agitated. When she arrived at the castle, Lord 
Seaford had already breathed his last. The two 
men, she was afterwards told, who witnessed the 
arrival of the schooner, hastened to inform him, 
and described to him the appearance of Frederic, 
and his meeting with Mrs. Wilton and Catha¬ 
rine. When they mentioned this last particular, 
they remarked that a purple flush suddenly over¬ 
spread his countenance, and he was instantly 
seized with a fit, supposed to be apoplexy, 
which, in less than half an hour, terminated 
fatally. 

A few weeks subsequent to his decease, on 
opening a small box, which Mrs. Wilton ima¬ 
gined contained some papers belonging to her 
late si9ter-in-law, she found letters addressed to 
Lord Seaford, by a notorious outlaw chief, by I 
which it appeared that he had himself shared ! 
his adventures and his crimes, and continuing j 
the intercourse after he had taken possession of i 


his paternal domains, permitted him to deposite 
the rich spoils, which were the price of blood, in 
a vaulted cavern beneath the castle. 

Frederic Wilton found too many attractions at 
home, to feel desirous to again tempt the dan¬ 
gers of the sea, he therefore resigned the com¬ 
mand of the schooner to the first mate. 

In twelve months from the time of Wilton’s 
return, Catharine, the heiress of Seaford Castle, 
exchanged her mourning weeds for bridal robes, 
and became the happy and beloved wife of the 
heir of Wilton Place. Mrs. Wilton fully shared 
their happiness, and as she looked back on the 
past, she could now, with a smile, behold the 
cloud that had so long and so darkly hovered 
over her, flitting away in the distance, its skirts 
tinged with the golden sunshine, which bright¬ 
ened the moral atmosphere of her and her chil¬ 
dren’s home. 


Original. 

THE BRIDAL PARTY.* 

i. 

Come, hasten ! let the burning gem’a 
Blaze in the shadows of her hair,— 

Held they the wealth of diadems, 

It all were well expended there. 

II. 

And bind her arm in golden clasp— 

Oh, clinging bracelet! soon to bo 
Forgotten in a thrilling grasp, 

Will leave that arm no longer free, 
in. 

The morning sun—how bright his beams 
Fall sparkling o’er the joyous erath— 

Ere night, mayhap, in threatening gleams, 

The sullen tempest leaps to birth. 

iv. 

Tlius may not thy fair day o’ercloud— 

But evening steal in calmness on, 

And when with age thy head is bowed, 

Still softly beam thy setting sun. 

v. 

And when thy brow with time is sere, 

And white thy locks with winter’s snow, 

Oh, may his hand be ever near, 

To cheer ye onward as ye go { 

VI. 

Oh, happy voyagers ! how bright 

The swelling tide seems rolling now I 
How bravely fliuheth up the light 
Around thy frail, adventurous prow ! 

VII. 

God speed ye, trusting ones! May wind 
And wave and sky propitious be, 

To waft your precious freight of love 
Safe o’er life’s dark and trackless sea! 

EPHEMERON. 

* Illustrative of the second plate. 


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16 


T HI COVERED DISH. 


Original. 

THE COVERED DISH; 

OR, JACOB SNYDER’S TEMPTATION. 

BY THE AUTHOR OP ‘ LAFITTE,’ * CAPT. KYD/ * QUADROON/ ETC. 

“ Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall." 

How fortunate mankind are to have such 
broad-backed progenitors as Adam and Eve, to 
lay all their evils and misfortunes upon ! Men 
are ever complaining, and always love to refer the 
causes of real or imaginary sorrow to the conduct 
of others, rather than to their own. Such a man 
was old Jacob Snyder, the gardener at Laurel 
Hill, the princely seat of the opulent Colonel Le 
Roy. Never had a man in Jacob’s condition of 
life more cause to be thankful or less ieason to 
grumble at the disbursement of the gifts of 
Providence. The situation of Laurel Hill was 
most commanding, embracing a wide view of the 
hundred spired city, the majestic bay of New- 
York, with its beautiful green or castellated 
islands, and the far blue ocean, dotted with an 
ever moving, an ever charming fleet. On the 
summit of the hill, in the midst of an extensive 
area of gardens, lawn and grove, stood the taste¬ 
ful mansion of the proprietor, a spacious manor- 
house of stone, ornamented with galleries and 
verandahs, with a noble terrace, extending along 
its front, adorned with gigantic vases and statues. 
South from the house, extending over many 
acres, spread his handsome garden, containing 
every variety of fruit-tree and flower, and pro¬ 
ducing the most luxurious esculents for the table. 
This garden, with its shaded walks, its beauteous 
patches of lawn, its fountain of marble in the 
midst, which sent forth living streams to water 
the whole, its spacious beds of vegetables and 
pastures of rare plants, its teeming vines and 
blushing plum trees, was altogether a perfect 
paradise in itself. But the most interesting 
feature of the garden was the cottage of the 
gardener, placed at the south side, so as to 
command all the converging alleys, and give 
Jacob a ready supervision of the whole. I 
stood on a little grass-plot, a fine old elm gtew 
one side of the door, and pots of blooming flowers i 
formed walks up to its front. Vases of roses and 
rare East Indian plants half hid the gothic 
windows, and graceful creeping vines trelliced 
the whole! It was one story, white as snow, 
with gothic ends and windows, and a tasteful 
portico in front. It was the sweetest little cot in 
the world. It seemed to smile with rural hap¬ 
piness. In the door, as one peeped in, could be 
seen in the hall comfortable settees, covered with 


smooth, black leather, and set off with rows of 
bright brass nails. In the very door stood a large 
square arm-chair, a deep, old fashioned recep¬ 
tacle, in which Jacob used to love to sit at eve¬ 
ning with his pipe in his mouth, and gaze forth 
upon his hortal empire, his good wife, a neat, 
tidy lady, with a respectable ruffed cap, a needle- 
case and scissors at her belt, and spectacles on 
her nose, seated near him, knitting his winter 
hose; while on one side of her purred a large 
Maltese tabby cat, and on the other side of him 
reposed his old dog, Growler. Surely, there 
never was a man who had less reason to complain 
of his lot than Jacob Snyder. His master, 
Colonel Le Roy, was one of the kindest and 
most indulgent gentlemen, and Jacob was a 
great favorite with him. He often came into the 
garden and stood by him as he removed a plant, 
or propped a leaning stalk, and discoursed with 
him in a free and affable manner about his craft, 
the secrets of vegetable nature, and the other 
mysteries of horticulture, which it was supposed 
Jacob knew better than himself. Moreover, 
Jacob had not a hard duty in his garden, for he 
kept under him three assistants, on whom de¬ 
volved the heavier portion of the work. Seldom 
it was that Jacob took a spade in his hand, 
except to dig about a rare and favorite plant, or 
remove one to a more congenial soil and situation. 
His salary was more than enough to support him 
with comfort, and enable him to enjoy many of 
the luxuries of life; and none of the little indul¬ 
gences which his years craved, was he ever 
under the necessity of denying himself. Colonel 
Le Roy sent him his pipes and tobacco, and once 
a year made him a present of a new waistcoat, 
and his dame of a new gown. Nothing was 
wanting to make Jacob Snyder, the gardener of 
Laurel Hill, happy, but a contented mind! This 
he had not. Yet there was nothing he could 
j desire. His wife had, in the course of their forty 
j years’ marriage, duly presented him with sons 
I and daughters ; four of whom, three sons and a 
1 daughter, were now living ; two of the sons well 
to do as industrious mechanics in the city, each 
with a family of pretty children ; the other son 
,[ assisting him as his head gardener, married to an 
1 excellent wife, and having a beautiful daughter 
I seventeen years of age; while his daughter, a 
maiden of thirty-six, lived at home as house keeper, 
making a most useful and necessary member of 
his household. Sundays he would have all 
his children and his grand-children at home, to 
pass the day, going away as evening set in, and 
such days the two old people felt were blessed ! 
and Jacob thanked God in his evening prayer for 


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THE COVERED DISH. 


17 


ull his mercies I Yet Jacob was not content 
with his lot. He always discovered a thorn some¬ 
where in every thing! There was a worm, or 
mildew to mar all around him. Yet he was not 
an ungrateful or peevish man, nor insensible to 
all his blessings. He knew and felt they were 
blessings, and that he was undeserving of them, 
yet he could not help feeling that his lot would 
have been far happier than it really was, if it had 
not been for Adam’s sin 


unto the woman, 4 Yea, hath God said, 44 Ye shall not eat 
of every tree of the garden?” 

41 2. And the woman said unto the serpent, 4 Wo moy 
eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden : 

“ 3. 4 But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst 
of the garden, God hath said, 44 shall not eat of it, 
neither aliall ye touch it, lest ye die.” 

44 Stop, dear,” interrupted Jacob, reverently 
removing his pipe from his mouth, while h# 
spoke; “ that seems to be to me, wife, a very 
easy command to obey. God, who was the great 


>een for Adam’s sin ! The truth and secret |t proprietor of thc garden of Eden, had a right to 
was, Jacob was a lazy man! He would have jj make RDy regulatioDS for Adam , h is gardener, to 
been glad to sit all day in his old leathern arm-,, fo , low he chose just a9 _ you are not listening, 
chair, his head laid back and smoking his pipe, || Jennette( never mind the robin , i e , him sing, it’s 
with somebody to wait on him, while he surveyed ! ; Sundayt and j have noticed the birds a | way3 ging 
through the clouds of smoke indolently rolling | , ouder acd mQre merrily on Sunday th an they do 
about his head, the delightful prospect of his on wee k- d ays! But, as I was observing, wife, 
garden, | j U3 , a3 jf ray g 0od master, Colonel Le Roy, 

It was one fine early autumn evening, ‘he i should gay t0 m6) .j aco b, I have made you my 


month was September, and the day was the Sab- |j 
bath. Jacob’s children and his grand-children, j 
save one, had just parted from him, and he sat j 
in his door with his short Dutch pipe in his 


mouth, listening to Jennette Snyder read the 1 ^ f Qr 


gardener; but there is a particular tree in my 
garden which I do not wish you to pluck any of 
the fruit from, but the fruit from all other trees 
you may pick for your own table as well as you 


Bible; while the old lady sat beside him in a 
low, quilted rocking-chair, with a Bible of very j 1 


mine.’ Now don’t you suppose I would 


obey my master ? Certainly I would. But sup¬ 
pose he had said to me in addition, 4 If you do 


large print, laid open on her lap, with her finger j: h , h fniit slla |, , )e disniis3ed from your 

placewould not this, wife, have beeu reason 


and spectacled vision following the maiden. She 
was a bright-eyed, rosy lass, with a lip of love, 
and, as Jacob U9ed to say, with a cheek like a 
peony in a cluster of lilies. Her hair was con¬ 
fined by a virgin fillet, passed across her fore¬ 
head, and in it was entwined a wreath of fragrant 
and most delicate flowers. 


enough for me to let it alone ? I am really sur¬ 
prized and quite ashamed of Adam.” 

“Don’t speak so of a Bible man, Jacob,” said 
the dame reprovingly. 44 Perhaps you might ha’ 

Tx , , i been tempted and took the fruit just as he did ! 

Her dress was a simple i _ , , ...... , . , . 

.. . ,! there s no knowin ! this is a mortal wicked world, 

white gown, beautifully fitting her full matured 

bust, and the whiteness of her neck was relieved 


by a narrow riband of black silk velvet, to which 
pended a small jet cross. A moss rose-bud was 
modestly stuck in her bosom, and a gold ring set 
with an emerald, graced one of her fingers. Her !| 
face wore a very sweet expression, made lovelier j 
still by the look of subdued and holy gravity with [ 
which she kept her eyes dropped on the sacred 
page before her. She sat in the door-step while i 


and we are all poor weak sinners.” 

“ And what made us sinners and the world 
wicked, but Adam’s disobedience ? I know well 
enough I could resist now, myself, sinner as I 
am, the Lord forgive my sins I while Adam fell 
without any excuse.” 

44 It was a pity,” ejaculated the old lady, shaking 
her head ; “ a mortal pity.” 

44 1 wish I had been in Adam’s place, I’d not 


she read, occasionally lifting her eyelid to glance 1 have acted as he did, I am well convinced; if it 
at a bird flying and singing by, or pausing as hadn’t been for him I should have been in my 
Jacob made some comment upon the text. She (I master, Colonel Le Roy’s place, and he would 
had began that Sabbath morning to read the i have been—been—no not in mine—for there 
Bible through to them, and was now, for the j would have been no gardeners I Nobody would 


evening prayers, commencing the third chapter j have to work; all mankind would be happy just 
in Genesis. As she read in a clear, reverent and jj like the birds in the air, that neither dig nor delve, 


softly modulated tone, becoming a reader of the 
sacred volume, it was delightful to listen to her. | 
And thus she read, while the blush of the crim- [ 
soned west as the sun was going down, was 
reflected from the page : 

44 1. Now the serpent was more subtle than nny beast! 
of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said 


but their Heavenly Father feedeth them ; or the 
lilies of the field that neither sow nor spin; yet 
are clothed in a manner that Solomon in all his 
glory could not equal. But come, Jennette, read 
on, dear!” 

44 4. And thc serpent said unto the woman, 4 Ye shall 
not surely die: 


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THE COVERED DISH. 


“5. ‘For God doth know, that in the day ye eat 
thereof, then your even shall be opened; and ye shall be 
as gods, knowing good and evil.” 

“ Ah, me, yes! they did learn whnt evil was 
sure enough, poor creatures,” sighed Dame 
Snyder. 

“And it was one of your own sex, woman, 
that was at the bottom of this, after all. Do you 
suppose if my master should point out a tree— 
say that Sutton pear-tree—and tell me I should 
not touch it on penalty of forfeiting my place, I 
would go near it, if I saw that branch that is 
bending with its rich load of fruit ready to break, 
if you should coax and entreat me to prop it up 
’till you was hoarse, or cried your eyes about it, 
and called me namesI Not I! I’d see it rot 
down first.” 

“ Well, Jacob, I on’y hopes you’ll never have 
the trial put on ye,” said the old lady, wiping the 
rim of her spectacles. 

“ I shouldn’t be afraid to abide it! But God, 
not man, spoke to Adam, and he had every reason 
to obey a command coining from such a source. 
Come, Jenny, dear.” 

44 And when the woman saw that the tree teas good 
for food-” 

44 The woman! Ah, good wife, you have 
much to answer for on your side,” said Jacob, 
complacently. 

44 -, and that it teas pleasant to tho eyes, and a tree 

to bo desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit 
thereof, and did eat; and gave also unto her husband 
with her, and ho did eat.'’ 

“Not I—not I—I wouldn’t have eaten if /had 
been the husband ! Oh, poor weak Adam ! I 
wish I had been in your shoes,” said Jacob, with 
animation, puffing long and strong at his pipe. 
44 Well child!” 

Jennette then read on, ’till the ninth verse, 
without being interrupted by her grand father’s 
commentaries. 

41 9. And the Lord God railed unto Adam, and said 
unto him, 4 Where art thou?’ 

44 10. And he said, ' I hoard thy voire in tbr garden, 
and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid mv- 
•elf.’ 

44 11. And he said, 4 Who told thee that thou vast 
naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I com¬ 
manded thee that thou shouldst not cat ?’ ” 

“Now it comes to guilty Adam! How my old 
flesh would ha’ trembled if I had eaten of the 
Sutton pear-tree, and Colonel Le Roy should 
have come into the garden and called to me in 
that terrible way ! Poor Adam—but it was his 
own fault, and he who sows the bitter must not 
expect to reap the sweet. Proceed, child ! Let 
us hear what Adam said;” and Jacob trimmed 
his pipe, and drew a long and placid puff. 

44 12. And the man said, 4 The woman, whom thou 


gavest to be with me, she gnvc me of the tree and I did 
cat.’” 

44 Hear that, grand-papa,” said Jennette, looking 
in his face and smiling archly, 44 how Adam, to 
get the blame off his own shoulders, accuses 
poor Eve!” 

“ Yes, child ; it would have been more manly 
to have taken the blame to himself. But nothing 
better could be expected of him, if he would eat 
fruit he was told not to touch. And you observe 
that he not only accuses Eve to shield himself, 
Jennette, but he upbraids even God bras ef: for 
he says to him in reply, as if with a sort of 
haughty reproof, ‘the woman whom Thou gavest 
to be with me,’ as if God was to blame for giving 
him the woman ! Ah, dear! it is a bad matter 
all around. Now go on, Jennette !” 

4 * 13. And the Lord God said unto the woman, 4 What 
is this, that thou hast done?'-” 

44 Now, what says the woman, Jennette! Listen 
wife,” cried Jacob, with a quiet smile in his eye. 

44 -And the woman said, 4 The serpant beguiled 

me, and I did eat.’ ” 

44 Yes, there she has a hole to creep out of a» 
well as Adam. But she wan’t half so bad as he, 
as Adam had accused his own wife, and Eve 
accused a serpent, and the really guilty one of 
the three ! But go on reading, grand-child !” 

44 14. And the Lord God said unto the serpent, 4 Be¬ 
cause thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all 
cattle, and above every beast of the field : upon thy belly 
shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy 
life: 

44 15. ‘And I will put enmity between thee and the 
woman, and between thy seed and her seed: it shall 
bruise thy head and thou shalt bruise his heel.’ ” 

44 Yes, yes,” said old Jacob, shaking his head 
very gravely; 44 that has been fulfilled to the 
letter: I never see a snake but I feel all my 
wrath and hatred in my bosom rise against him I 
! How true it is they always bite us on the heel, 
and we always kill them by smashing their 
] heads. But Adam was a bad gardener of Eden, 
or he would have kept it free from serpents, and 
such varmint. But then when the gardener 
disobeys his employer, what else can be expected 
of him ! Well, child, let us hear.” 

Jennette read the next verse, which was replied 
to only by a heavy assenting sigh from the old 
dame, and she continued, 

jj 44 17. And unto Adam he said, 4 Because tliou hast 
If hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, anti hast eaten of 
II the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, 1 hou shalt 
I not eat ot it; cursed is the ground for thy sake ; in sorrow 
! shalt thou cat of it all the days ot thy life.' ” 

“ Now it falls upon his head ! Oh, Adam, 
Adam, what a deal of mischief has come of 
I eating one apple!” said Jacob, with a groan from 
I the bottom of his heart. 


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THE COVERED DISH. 


19 


** 18. * Thorns also, and thistles shall it bring forth to 
thee ; and thou shalt eat of the field 

“19. ‘ Tn the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, 
‘till thou return unto the ground ; for out of it wast thou 
taken: for dust thou art , and unto dust shalt thou 
return.’” 

44 Ah, dear, dear ! Adam, Adam,” heavily 
sighed the old gardener, taking his pipe from his 
mouth, and knocking the ashes out; 44 what evil 
ha 9 t thou entailed on thy children and descen¬ 
dants after thee. Yes, the very ground is cursed 
for thy sake ! and our very eyes show it to be so I 
Look into the fields when they have lain fallow 
a year, when man ceases to dig and delve in 
them for a spell, and what thorus and thistles 
and rank weeds spring up! Nothing but work, 
hard work, toiling and sweating from morning 
’till nigh, keeps the earth from being overrun 
with this fearful curse of God upon it for Adam’s 
sin ! Now, how man has to struggle and hoe 
and dig his way through this miserable life. 
Let him cease his exertions, and he perishes of 
starvation. His own necessities compel him to 
be the involuntary instrument of fulfilling the 
curse, 4 that by the sweat of thy face shalt thou 
eat bread !’ Oh, Adam, Adam ! what evil hath 
come of thy childish indulgence of the fruit of 
one tree, when out of the ground God had 4 made 
to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, 
and good for food.’ Pity, pity thou couldst not 
have restrained thy appetite. What a pleasant 
garden of a world this would have been, if thou 
hadst ! no digging and dikeing, no delving and j 
planting, no grafting and pruning, no hoeing and 
spading, no watering of plants, and building of 
hot-houses, but all the world would have been 
just like Eden before the curse! Oh, Adam, 
Adam,” and he added, turning to his wife, and 
glancing at Jennette, 44 oh. Eve, Eve !” Thus 
grumbled old Jacob, as he sat in his arm-chair, 
with his pleasant garden before him, the blue 
skies above him, the pleasant evening wind lifting 
his white hair upon his temples, and all nature 
calm and lovely in its Sabbath repose; for 
Christ ’9 obedience had softened the curse, which 
else earth could not have borne ! 

Jennette, at a nod from her grandfather, read 
on : 

3. Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the 
garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was 
taken. 

44 Yes, if it had not been for Adam, wife, only 
think of that!—if it had not been for Adam, 
there would have been no tilling of the ground, 
—no such a thing as a spade, hoe or rake! I 
should never have been a gardener digging all 
my life.” 

44 But you don’t dig now, unless you choose, 


Jacob,” answered the pious old dame. 44 God 
has blessed you in laying up a store, and we 
ought to be thankful*” 

44 That is well enough to say, wife. I may 
not have to work so very hard now, but then I 
can’t forgive Adam for making me to live a life 
of hard labor and toil and sweat, ’till I was fifty 
and upward ! He’s got forty years good hard 
work to answer for!” 

44 You mustn’t talk in that wicked way, of a 
man of God’s own make, Jacob. Adam was 
wicked, but God did not curse him, but only the 
ground.” 

44 Well, well, dame, perhaps I’m wrong. Come, 
Jennette, let us hear what was done to Adam 
after.” 

24. So he drove out the man: and he placed at the 
east of the garden of Eden, cherubims, and a flaming 
sword, which turned every way, to keep the way of the 
tree of life. 

44 This is the end of the chapter, grandfather,” 
said Jennette, looking up into his face, and by 
the expression of her countenance, asking if she 
should close the book. 

44 Shut it up, child! It is getting to be 
twilight,” he said, putting aside his pipe; 44 now 
we have seen the evil of disobedience, and how 
one sin leads to another in this chapter. Seven 
deadly sin 9 were committed one after the other! 
First, Eve sinned by listening to the serpent, and 
doubting God; she sinned a second time in 
plucking and eating the apple,—or rather, some 
think it was a nectarine or Sutton pear she ate; 
she sinned a third time in tempting Adam; the 
fourth sin was committed by Adam in yielding 
to the temptation; the fifth, by his lying, and 
saying he hid himself because he was naked; 
the sixth by his laying the gnilt upon Eve; the 
seventh, by Eve’s laying it upon the serpent, 
instead of frankly confessing her disobedience of 
God’s command, repenting and asking to be for¬ 
given ! Ah, it was a sad, sad thing. Oh, Adam, 
Adam!” 

Jacob sighed, and slowly shook his white head, 
looking as if he thought, compared with Adam* 
that he was the very pillar of confidence and 
trust. He then rose from his chair, and stand¬ 
ing up, with his hands folded together reverently, 
after the fashion of good old Presbyterians, while 
Jennette, who was a Methodist, kneeled humble 
by his feet, he offered up the evening prayer. 
The sun was sinking behind the hills in the rosy 
west; a bird was singing its sweet vesper hymn 
from a hawthorn before the door, a thousand 
varied flowers lifted their tinted lips to drink the 
falling dew ! Nature was full of beauty and of 
praise! The voice of old Jacob rose tremu- 


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THE COVERE 


DISH. 


✓ 


lously upon the calm air, we trust an acceptable! 
incense to the Father who, dwelling in Heaven, 
regardeth the inhabitants of the earth beneath, 
and noteth even the fall of a sparrow, and num- 
bereth the grey hairs of age as silently, one by 
one, they fall to the ground, like the sands of the 
glass of Time ! He humbly blessed God for all 
his mercies, and thanked Him that He had given 
him integrity and firmness sufficient to enable 
him to withstand all temptations to disobedience 
like that by which weak Adam fell! 

Jacob ended his evening worship, and soon 
afterwards, with his family, retired to a repose 
sweeter and less care-heavy than usually falls to 
the lot of man. 

* * • • * * 

The ensuing Monday morning Jacob was in 
his garden setting out some very valuable bul¬ 
bous roots which Colonel Le Roy had received 
from the West Indies, and which he was anxious 
to preserve ; he therefore had given them in 
Jacob's charge, with directions that no one 
should attend to them but himself. It was 
about eleven o’ clock, and the sun was warm, 
and Jacob, although he had his coat off, per¬ 
spired freely, and during his work, gave utter¬ 
ance to many a groan. At length he stopped, 
leaned on his spade, and wiped the sweat off 
from his forehead and face with his red bandanna 
handkerchief. 

\ “ Ah, yes, yes, this all comes of Adam’s sin !” 
he sighed, looking as indignantly virtuous as if 
he could be trusted with a hundred gardens of 
Eden, each containing a forbidden tree. 44 Here 
I am digging the ground with the sweat of my 
brow, according to the curse! Oh, Adam, 
Adam, if I had been in your place, I should 
never have eaten that apple !” 

Colonel Le Roy, who had come into the 
garden to see how Jacob was getting on with the 
plants, heard him say this from a walk which was 
separated from the bed in which Jacob was a 
work, by a thickset hedge, and approaching him, 
said smilingly, 

u What is that you say, Jacob, about father! 
Adam ?” j 

“ I was saying, sir,” said Jacob, touching his 
hat brim, and passing his handkerchief across his 
forehead, 44 I was saying that if it had not been 
for Adam, I should not be digging and delving as 
I have to do now, and have done all my life.” 

44 Do you think you would have acted diffe¬ 
rently, then, Jacob, if you had been in Adam’s 
place ?” 

44 Certainly, sir,” replied Jacob, with a slight 
look of contempt, as if he had been insulted by 


! the doubt implied in the question; 44 I should 
never have touched the forbidden fruit. I have 
no such curiosity to know what I am forbid to 
know. If I had been Adam, sir, the world would 
have been another sort of a world than it is.” 

u I am glad to hear you express such confi¬ 
dence in yourself, Jacob,” said Colonel Le Roy 
with a smile; “ but as you can never have the 
trial, it can never be doubted but what you could 
withstand the temptation.” 

44 Not a bit of a doubt, sir! Nothing but an 
apple! I am sure of myself, sir! Do you think 
if you should place in the hot house, under a 
glass, a rare plant, and forbid me to touch it, I 
would put finger or eye on the glass; not I, not 
I; even if you told me the merest touch of it 
would give me a knowledge of the good and evil 
properties of all plants that grow on the earth! 
Not I, not I.” 

44 That would be a greater temptation to you, 
Jacob, than Adam’s was to him. But as he fell, 
and so brought sorrow and toil upon all of us, 
we must try, by obedience to God’s command¬ 
ments, to convert the curse he has entailed upon 
us into a blessing.” 

With this excellent observation, Colonel Le 
Roy, after a few moment’s watching the mode in 
which Jacob set out the bulbous roots, and giving 
some directions as to their management, left him, 
and returned to his house, his thoughts involun¬ 
tarily dwelling upon the subject of his conversa¬ 
tion with his old gardener. 

A month elapsed after this conversation, and 
i it had quite escaped old Jacob’s mind ; but not 
| that 6f Colonel Le Roy. One morning he sent 
: for him to come to his library. Jacob appeared, 
and standing in the door with his old white, 

I broad-brimmed hat in his hand, awaited respect- 
I fully his commands. Colonel Le Roy graciously 
invited him to be seated, and then said in a care¬ 
less tone, 

44 Jacob, I am going from home for a few days 
with all my family, and would like to have you 
stay in the house and take care of it for me. At 
this season you have little to attend to in the 
garden, and as you are fond of reading and look¬ 
ing at landscapes of gardening, you can pass as 
much time in my library as you choose. And, 
as I wish my servants not to be idle, and things 
! to go on just as they do when the family are at 
home, I shall have the same table set every day 
for dinner with courses and dishes just as if 
I was here myself. It is my wish that you 
should dine here every day alone with your wife, 
and my servants art instructed ta wait on you as 


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THE CaVERED DI6H. 


31 


they do upon me, and to attend to your every 
wish. Recollect this is not to do you any honor, 
but because I wish to keep my servants in their 
regular routine of discipline, as well when I am 
absent as when I am present.' 1 

44 Yes, sir,” answered Jacob, who had listened 
with satisfaction, and yet with no little surprize 
at this request of his master. It seemed, howe¬ 
ver, so plausible to him, that he thought it neces¬ 
sary only to give his brief assent to it. This 
arrangement, moreover, just suited the indolent 
and ease-loving temper of old Jacob, and as he 
bowed and said, “Yes, sir,” visions of luxurious 
laziness floated before his imagination. 

• “Very well, Jacob; dinner is now ready, and 
you must go in and dine with me, as I leave 
home after dinner, and I wish you to be a little 
initiated into your new position.” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the happy Jacob. 

“ During dinner, Jacob’s eyes had several 
times rested upon a small, silver-covered dish 
standing in the centre of the table. Every other 
dish but this,—And there was a very great num¬ 
ber,—had been uncovered, and he had been 
helped to a portion of their contents, but he 
noticed that Colonel Le Roy never directed his 
eye towards this, nor paid any more attention to 
it than as if it was not on the table. Jacob con¬ 
ceived it must contain something very choice, to 
be reserved last, and so went on eating what he 
had before him with great zest, but ever and 
anon glancing at this dish. At length every 
thing was removed from the table, the cloth even 
taken away, yet this dish carefully replaced, still 
covered, by the servants. Jacob thought, as he 
drank the wine his master poured out for him, 
that the dish would soon be uncovered, and he 
should be helped to a part of what was in it. 
To his grief and regret, he saw Colonel Le Roy 
about to rise from the table without touching it, 
when, thinking he had forgotten it, he ventured 
to speak and modestly remind him of it: 

“ Oh, that dish, Jacob! yes, yes; I am glad 
you spoke. It is a custom with me, always to 
have on my table, one di9h not uncovered, to 
whetten the appetite, while it defeats curiosity 
and so inculcates a healthy lesson. You will, of 
course, find this dish placed on the table every 
day while I am gone. It has never been un¬ 
covered by any one, as I have always enough other 
dishes to gratify the palate without it. You will 
therefore remember not to uncover it.” 

• 4 Oh, yes, sir,” said Jacob, with confidence. 

“ Every other dish on the table you may 
freely partake of; but this I strictly forbid you j 
to uncover or meddle with.” 

3 


“Yes, sir,” answered Jacob, wondering in his 
heart what the dish could contain. 

“Very, well, I will now leave you is charge 
’till I return, which will be in a very few days.” 

Thus speaking, Colonel Le Roy took his de¬ 
parture, leaving the trusty Jacob in command of 
his household. 

The table was arranged for dinner the next 
day in a more sumptuous manner than the pre¬ 
ceding day, and Jacob sat down to his luxurious 
banquet. The servants were respectful and at¬ 
tentive, and he ate from this dish a little, and 
from that a little, ’till his soul was filled with 
good things; yet he could not help occasionally 
casting his eye at the covered dish he wan for¬ 
bidden to touch. So he ate his dinner, and took 
a lordly nap after it in the library. 

The second day the banquet was more sump* 
tuous than the day before, but he had less appe¬ 
tite ; for, stopping often to look at the covered 
dish, and wonder what was in it, quite lessened 
his appetite for the other dishes. He left the 
table this day earlier than the day before, and 
couldn’t sleep 90 well after. 

The third day there was still a more luxurious 
feast spread before him; but he could hardly 
touch any thing for dinner, to know what was in 
the deep dish, regularly placed on the table each 
day by the servants, and yet so mysteriously kept 
covered! He ate but little, and left the table 
with a longing glance at the interdicted dish. 

The fourth day he scarcely touched any thing 
the assiduous servants offered to him. He sat 
before the sumptuous feast with a melancholy 
look. He could see nothing but the covered 
dish in the midst of the table. Poor Jacob! he 
had began to be the victim of insatiable curiosity! 
He pined in spirit, and his bowels waxed faint 
within him! He loathed every thing before 
him! He angrily forbade the solicitous servants 
to lift the covers of any more dishes! “ What,’ 9 
felt he in the depth of his soul, “ what are dishes 
to me, which I can cover and uncover, eat or 
not at my pleasure, when I see, every day a dish 
placed before me, the cover of which I am for¬ 
bidden to lift!” 

Thus Jacob loathed the banquet his master 
had provided for him, because he had withheld 
from his use one single dish in ths midst of the 
table! 

The fifth day, Jacob sat at the untouched 
feast with folded hands and an unhappy brow. 
The servants would have uncovered the dishes, 
but he sternly forbade them to do so, and com¬ 
manded them to quit the room and leave him to 
himself, for he felt ill and wanted nothing. For 


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22 


THE COVERED DISH. 


a long time he sat moody and discontents At 
length he spoke: 

44 What is all this feast to me, s© that I am 
forbidden to enjoy but a portion of it ? Why is 
that dish placed there to destroy my appetite and 
make me wretched! If I only knew what was 
in it—I should be satisfied—I wouldn’t care to 
eat of it! What harm in the world would it be 
just to ascertain !” 

Jacob’s eye brightened at the thought he had 
conceived, and he looked round the room care¬ 
fully. He was alone. He rose up and locked 
the doors, and once more seated himself at the 
table. 

“ Yes, what harm would it be now for me just 
to lift the cover half an inch, and peep in! No 
one can see me! My master would never know 
it! I will just lift the cover and take a hasty 
peep under it, and put it right down again! 
Who would ever know it ? What harm would 
it do any body? I shall never be happy or 
have any appetite for all these good things I am 
losing every day, if I don’t! Yes, I’ll just take 
one look and that’s all!” 

‘ With this resolution to yield to the temptation 
before him, Jacob raised himself in his chair, and 
with a happy look at the idea of having the mystery 
of the dish, which had made him so unhappy, 
solved by a mere motion of his hand, he stretched 
his arm across the table, and smartly raised the 
cover! 

Instantly, before he could clap it on again, a 
snow-white rabbit sprung out of the dish upon 
the table, and then leaped to the fioor, the 
terrified Jacob after him. Away bounded the 
little animal, now darting here under a chair, 
now there beneath a sofa, putting Jacob, who 
had clapped the cover quickly on again fright¬ 
ened at what he had done, almost out of his 
wits. In vain Jacob crushed his hands and 
knees beneath the chairs and table, rolled over 
and over on the carpet in his anxiety to capture 
him! The rabbit was too nimble for him, and 
at length by springing into a niche successfully 
eluded all his attempts to secure him. Jacob 
stood looking up at him, out of breath, and 
trembling at the consequences of this untoward 
result of his curiosity. 

“ If I’d only known it was a live rabbit, I would 
have let it alone,” he said, with shame and 
affright, wiping great drops of perspiration from 
his forehead. At this moment, he heard the 
voice of Colonel Le Roy, on the front gallery 
upon which the long dining-room windows 
o'pened. Shaking with fear, and overcome with 
shame as the parallel between his own case and 


Adam’s irresistibly forced itself upon his mind, 
he sunk down upon his knees and clasped his 
trembling hands together as well as he could for 
their shaking. Colonel Le Roy appeared at the 
window, and throwing it hastily up entered, 
followed by his wife, daughter, and all the ser¬ 
vants of his household. His eye was not long in 
falling on Jacob. 

“ Ah, how is this, worthy Jacob ? What hath 
happened? Your dinner untouched, and you 
kneeling and shaking like an aspen.” 

“ I—I—heard you coming, sir,” said Jacob, 
casting a side glance at the rabbit up in the 
niche, to be sure he had not been seen, “ and 
I thought—I thought it might be—might be 
robbers!” 

44 Oh, you did, did you, Jacob,—well you see 
we are not. Ah, I see you have not touched the 
dish I forbade you to meddle with.” 

44 N—n—no, sir,” replied the honest and 
trusty Jacob, casting a miserable look towards 
the spot where it stood. # 

At this instant, the pet-rabbit, finding it had 
nothing further to fear from its pursuer, leaped 
confidently down upon Colonel Le Roy’s shoul¬ 
der, and perched there. 

44 Ah, what is this!” cried he, in an angry 
voice; 44 Jacob, have you told me a lie ?” And 
his master, who had witnessed all that transpired 
from the window, approached the table and raised 
the cover of the dish. It was empty as he well 
knew. “You have disobeyed my command, I 
see, sir, and uncovered this dish !” 

“Oh, oh, oh! yes, sir. I did!” cried Jacob, 
wringing his hands, and hanging his head. 

44 And could you not be satisfied with partaking 
of the numerous dishes set before you, without 
touching this which I had reserved for purposes 
which I did not see fit to communicate to you, 
and had strictly forbidden you to meddle with. 
Go, to your own house, old man, and when you 
would reflect upon Adam for eating the forbidden 
fruit, recall to mind the Covered Dish.” 

From that day, Jacob Snyder became a happy 
and contented man, and never spoke of Adam’s 
transgression without remembering his own temp¬ 
tation and fall. 


Moderation in Disputes.— When we are 
in a condition to overthrow falsehood and error, 
we ought not to do it with vehemence, nor insult¬ 
ingly and with an air of contempt : but to lay 
open the truth, and with answers full of mildness 
to refute the falsehood.— Hierocles, 


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LOVE AND WHAHNQ. 


23 


Orl(io«l. 

LOVE AND WHALING. 

BT MRS. EMMA' C. SMBDRT. 

•* Nothing of him, - 

Bat doth tuffcr a «ea*chajif«. M 

M She that will toot, when ahe may, 

When ahe *<nUd ahe aball have »oy.” 

Maria*, or, as she was usually styled, May 
Morton, was decidedly the beauty of 
and in order that you may know, gentle reader, 
the full value of such commendation, let me just 
whisper in your ear, that ^the little town of 
N********, though but a minnow compared 
with the huge leviathans of cities which stretch 
themselves along our Atlantic shore, was famous 
throughout the Western world for its whale- 
ships, and its beautiful women. By the way, 
there seems to be a singular affinity between 
whale-oil and love-locks, rosy lips and blubber, 
for it is a fact that those portions of our country 
which send forth the most hardy seamen, are 
always noted for their wealth of female loveliness. 
I dare say my friend Doctor *•**, would theorize 
about the matter, until he had proved to his own 
satisfaction, that as health is the first requisite 
of beauty, the same climate which nerves the 
rugged frame of man would be likely to add 
brilliancy to the personal charms of the gentler 
sex. However, it required no effort of reasoning 
to prove that May Morton was the loveliest girl 
in N********. She did not in the least resemble 
a city belle, with a waist like a willow wand, a 
complexion whose pallor shows the price she 
pays for the pleasure of exhibiting her mig - 
non foot, and features, whose early-shapened 
outline betrays the hardships of days and 
nights of pleasure-hunting and beau-fishing. 
May Morton’s form was rounded into the per¬ 
fect symmetry of health, her foot was arched like 
an Arab’s, and her step had an elastic grace 
which no art could teach. Her complexion was 
superb, and, as to her hair, one would suppose 
ahe had been born in Russia, where such magni¬ 
ficent chevdures are common enough to make us 
fancy that Jack Frost carries crimping-irons in 
his icy hands. May’s hair curled naturally, (no 
small advantage, to a dweller by the sea-side, 
where the fogs which relaxed and crisped the 
ringlets of less favored damsels, only gave a 
eloser curve to her glossy tresses.) It curled 
naturally, but not in the independent style which 
one is sometimes oalled to admire, where each 
individual hair sets up for itself, until the unfor¬ 
tunate head resembles nothing so much as a 
bundle of notes of interrogation. Rich in color 


and luxuriant in quantity. May’s hair dropped 
its thick heavy volutes over her neck and brow, 
with a grace and freedom that all the skill of a 
French perruqvier would have failed to control or 
improve. The great charm of May’s face was 
its frank, joyous expression. Her features were 
not regularly beautiful, but they were so perfectly 
adapted to each other, and there was so much 
beauty of coloring, such a happy combination of 
light and shade, and through all there beamed 
such heartfelt cheerfulness, that nothing could 
be lovelier. 

May Morton might have been as good as she 
was beautiful. She was cheerful, good-tempered, 
kindly and affectionate; while her mind was of 
that mediocre class, which is, after all, the most 
womanly, and the best adapted to the exigencies 
of life. She was exactly the sort of person 
whom circumstances usually educate, and, who 
according to the standard which Love places 
before them, may be elevated to intellectual 
companionship, or degraded to a mere household 
drudge. But May had one serious fault, or, at 
least, one weakness of character, which produced 
all the evil effects of a positive fault. May 
Morton was a coquette. 

There are certainly two species of coquetry; 
one is the offspring of egotism and vanity,—the 
other merely the exaggeration of a natural desire 
to please: the first is an engrafted vice,—the 
last only an ill-trained nature: the one is like an 
ugly excrescence on some fair and stately tree,— 
the other is only the overgrowth of a luxuriant 
vine, which expends in putting forth branches 
and tendrils, the strength that should have 
enabled it to bear fruit in its season. And diffe¬ 
rent as are those varieties of the same error, are the 
feelings with which we are apt to regard them. 
We turn with contempt from the warped and 
deformed stock, while we admire the free grace 
and beauty of the wild vine; and not until the 
summer is over, and the leaves have fallen, do we 
remember that the fruit has not budded, to repay 
us for the loss of that which charmed the sight. 

May Morton was a coquette,—there is no 
disguising the fact,—she was a consummate 
coquette. But her’s was not the engrafted vice. 
Coquetry was in her an in-born, inbred idea. 
She lived but to please, and from the time, 
when, as a rosy-cheeked child, she first learned 
to deny a kiss in order to have it stolen amid a 
game of romps, until the period of her triumphs 
among the sensitive hearts of men, she had been 
a thorough coquette. It was the profound 
remark of one who has sounded many a depth 
and shallow of the human heart, that “ the most 


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LOVE Aft D WHALING. 


£4 




successful coquette is she who for the time, is 
perfectly sincere.” It was a deep truth, for, dis¬ 
guise it as we may, we cannot give to art the sem¬ 
blance of simplicity; perhaps for the same reason 
as would make it difficult for a masquerader to 
conceal himself under the scanty garb of a Sand¬ 
wich Islander; since we can scarcely arrange the 
voluminous folds of falsehood so as to personate 
the naked truth. There is an atmosphere sur¬ 
rounding artificial people, in which genuine 
feeling cannot exist, and therefore it is that a 
cold, heartless, calculating coquette rarely suc¬ 
ceeds in producing a deep and permanent impres¬ 
sion. But the case is veiy different with the 
class of coquettes au naturel . “ They are not 
false hut they are fickle,—they are true to the 
object, false only to the subject ,—true to their 
desire to please, false only So the person 
pleasedand such an one was May Morton. 

She had enjoyed the opportunity of rejecting 
more than half the beaux of N********, and it is 
an undeniable fact, that, whatever foe a woman's 
charms, she never obtains the chance of frequent 
refusals, except by coqnetry. Men will not prof¬ 
fer the noble gifts of heart and hand, unless they 
have been encouraged to believe they will be 
accepted; and although vanity, blind passion, or 
ungovernable impetuosity may lead one or two or 
three, to risk the chances without waiting to 
calculate the probabilities, yet a woman never 
receives many offers without the compromise of 
her womanly dignity. “ He comes too near who 
comes to be deniedthere is a loss of moral 
purity in this frequent and close contact with 
passionate love; and though virtue may still 
remain, the delicate and instinctive modesty,— 
the blush of the soul,—fades from the character 
for ever. 

May was in the habit of forming sudden and 
violent partialities. A new man, or one, who by 
chance, developed some new trait of character, 
was always a prize to her. She would yield her¬ 
self up to the humor of the moment, and while 
the whim lasted, nothing could be more fasci¬ 
nating than her manners towards the victim. 
She knew that she was beautiful, and although 
she had never read the minute instructions which 
a certain sparkling writer frequently offers to 
incipient belles, she yet perfectly understood the 
•rt of managing her attractions. She had superb 
eyes,—large, soft, liquid, as if a tear lurked under 
the heavy lids, and of that expressive color, which 
is so blended of grey, and hazel, and black, as 
to be perfectly indescribable. Their form and 
setting, too, were as remarkable as their color. 
They were perfectly oval, but at the same time 


full,—not like the sleepy looking, almond-shaped 
eyes so immortalized by Lely; they opened 
widely when she chose to display their splendors, 
but usually they were half hidden beneath their 
magnificent lids. I never saw such eye-lids,— 
firmly cut, white as ivory, with a delicate tracery 
of blue veins crossing but not darkening their 
surface, and bordered both on the upper and 
under side, (a rare beauty,) by long, black, curved 
lashes,—they were in themselves as expressive as 
the actual eyebeams of most women. Well ;— 
May would drop these beautiful screens over 
her full eyes, cross her hands demurely on her 
lap, incline her head a little to the right side, and 
seem to be looking intently at the proud curve of 
her beautiful foot, which was allowed to peep out 
from beneath her dress. In such an attitude she 
was a study for a painter; nothing could be more 
natural or more full of simplicity. But on a 
sodden, when she felt the look of some enthralled 
victim burning upon her brow, she would raise 
with a quiet but quick motion those veiling lids, 
and the start of surprize and delight with which 
the beholder would meet the flash of those 
glorious eyes, amply rewarded her for her 
pretty artifice. Yes; May was a consummate 
coquette. 

Among May’s numerous suitors, were two 
who seemed to distance all other competitors, 
and they were so entirely dissimilar in character, 
that they really formed no inapt personifications 
of man’s twofold nature. Tom H—, was an 
admirable specimen of the animal man. He was 
upwards of six feet high, with a finely developed 
form ; broad-shouldered, deep-chested, straight- 
limbed, strong as a giant, and decidedly hand¬ 
some. His features were boldly but symmetri- 
cally chiselled, his close-curling hair concealed 
the defects of a high but unintellectual brow, his 
eyes were black and sparkling, his teeth brilliantly 
white, his lips full and red, and although his 
somewhat protruding mouth, and the massiveness 
which spoiled the lower part of his face, gave an 
expression which nearly approached to “ all wo 
hate,” yet Tom was a remarkably handsome man. 
He was, as I have said, a really noble animal, 
while his good nature, and rough courage were 
exactly the qualities we should have expected in 
such a person. I need hardly add that Tom was 
a sailor; for, in a place where every he-creature, 
either was, had been, or expected to be a whale- 
fisher, it would be folly to suppose that he could 
be any thing else. Indeed, the male population 
of N—, was made up of owners of whale- 
n ships, captains of whale-ships, and crews of whale- 
lJ ships; while the young fry all looked forward to 


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LOVE AND WHALING. 


25 


the time when they should occupy one, or per¬ 
haps all of these positions. 

There was only one exception to this general 
rule,—one only rebel in this principality of 
whales, and he was found in the person of May 
Morton’s second favorite. Louis W——, was 
one of a large family, all whom had suffered “ a 
sea-changefor his father had been the most 
expert of captains, his brothers were all skilful 
mariners, and his sisters were all married to “ fish - 
like" men. He might have exclaimed in the lan¬ 
guage of his favorite poet, M Oh, flesh, how art 
thou flshified!” for all his tribe seemed to have 
found “ parmeceti, the sovereigntest thing in the 
world.” They were a burly, rugged, unrefined 
set of people, while Louis was as delicate in per¬ 
son as a woman. Rather under middle size, 
with a slight figure, hands small and white, and 
long taper fingers, that seemed only fit to handle 
the pen or the distaff, the first impression which 
his appearance produced was that of effeminacy. 
Bat one glance at his fine countenance was suffi¬ 
cient to change that hasty-formed opinion ; for, 
without a single feature which could be called 
handsome, yet the soul which beamed in his 
noble face made him almost beautiful. A quiet, 
grave, reflective expression, was his most habitual 
one, but upon any excitement, his dark, deep-set 
eyes became as lustrous as stars, and a smile of 
ineffable meekness curved his pale lips, while his 
mobile brow and the rapid vibrations of his thin 
and flexible nostrils, gave a vividness to his coun¬ 
tenance, which added great charms to its usual 
spirituality. Unfortunately for Louis, his posi¬ 
tion was ill-adapted to his peculiarities of charac¬ 
ter. Among a set of rugged and hardy men who 
prided themselves on the physical qualities of 
strength and agility, he was not likely to meet 
with much appreciation. His love for quiet 
study, his abstracted habits, his shy and reserved 
manners, made him rather an object of half- 
contemptuous pity, among the sturdy spirits by 
whom he was surrounded. His father lamented 
his degeneracy, while his brothers despised it, and 
he was obliged to struggle with all sorts of difficul¬ 
ties, before he could obtain the privilege of de¬ 
voting himself to intellectual pursuits. Alone 
and almost unaided, he had slowly and laboriously 
fitted himself for college, and at an age when 
most men are thinking of quitting academic 
seclusion, Louis was just prepared to enter 
upon it. 

Louis had at length overcome all obstacles by 
his seal and perseverance, and looked forward to 
entering college at the ensuing term, when acci¬ 
dent brought him into close contact with May 


Morton. He had heard of her beauty, but his 
studies had kept him so entirely out of society 
that he had never happened to meet her. He 
had heard, too, of her coquetry, but the tale was 
like idle gossip, to which bis poetic mind never 
inclined, and when he first beheld her bright and 
bewitching loveliness, he was fascinated on the 
instant. May was not ignorant of him also, 
and, when she saw him, the thought crossed her 
mind that there would be both triumph and 
pleasure in exciting an interest in the heart of 
the passionless student. She approached him 
with a feeling of vague curiosity, which soon 
deepened into interest. There was something in 
the earnestness, the high-raindedness, the un¬ 
worldliness of Louis, which touched the better 
nature of the wayward girl. His delicacy of 
sentiment his clearness of perception, the sense 
of a higher existence, which pervaded his whole 
character, started, astonished and pleased her. 
As usual, she endeavored to adapt herself to his 
taste, but it was with a feeling of timidity most 
unusual to her. Perhaps this very doubt of her 
own powers gave unwonted softness to her man¬ 
ners, and imparted new interest to her beauty. 
Certain it is, that she succeeded in her attempts, 
and Louis was steeped to the rery bps in love 
before he knew that he was even approaching the 
mingled stream of sweet and bitter waters. 

Now came the moment of trial to May’s 
coquetish temper. There was something so new 
and fresh in the character of her lover that her 
feelings were deeply interested. She was con¬ 
scious that she had enjoyed unwonted pleasure 
in listening to the moving accents of eloquent 
utterance from the lips of one to whom the world 
of heart and mind was open. She half believed 
that her emotions were such as only love can 
awaken, and yet, the spirit of coquetry triumphed. 
She could not resist the temptation of trying her 
power; she could not forego the opportunity of 
triumphing over her intellectual lover as she had 
often done over less unworldly suitors. There 
was another weakness, too, at work. She was a 
little ashamed of the personnel of her giAed ad¬ 
mirer. She wished again and again that Louis 
possessed the figure of Tom H—, or that Tom 
could only talk like Louis. In the midst of a 
gay party, Tom was decidedly favored, for he 
was the most eligible beau, when she was dis¬ 
posed to display herself to advantage; but in the 
moonlight walk or the quiet tiU-a-tete, she infi¬ 
nitely preferred her poetic lover. Tom minis¬ 
tered to her vanity, but Louis to her better 
nature, and she played off one against the other 
in a way which was calculated to give paia to 


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26 


LOVE AND WHALING. 


both. Again and again did Louis leave her 
with a saddened spirit; again and again did Tom 
swear he wonld not be put off and on, like a half- 
worn glove. But the next time she met Louis 
her soft, sweet murmurs and gentle voice would 
sink into his heart and he was as madly in love 
as ever; while she had only to give Tom a kind 
look, or lay her little hand on his sturdy arm, to 
bring him again at her feet. 

But May was not now playing false, she was 
only undecided. Her pride was at variance with 
her good feelings. Had she seen Louis in his 
proper sphere, admired and appreciated by intel¬ 
lectual people, she could not have hesitated an 
instant, but amid the stalwart and sturdy sailors, 

who surrounded him in N-, he certainly 

appeared deficient in manliness and courage. 
Her prejudices of habit and education, led her to 
admit his rival’s claims to admiration, while her 
higher principles which occasionally broke forth 
in brief and sudden gleams enabled her to see 
clearly that there were better things than animal 
courage and physical beauty. Still, she could 
not bear to own a preference to the man, who, 
she well knew, was an object of ridicule to half 

the rough youths in N-. Besides, there 

was a poignancy in the present contest between 
the two rivals which peculiarly suited her wilful 
and wayward fancy. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, May Morton,” said 

Tom H-, one day, ** I won’t stand this much 

longer. By the powers, I’d rather spend my 
life in chasing Mocha Dick, the old white whale 
who has balked every fellow that has pulled oar 
after him for the last ten years, and shakes off 
harpoons as if they were pin-hooks, than play off 
and on in this way with a girl that don’t know 
her own mind. Why can't you say at once 
whether you like me or not?” 

“You never asked me, Tom,” was the demure 
reply. 

“ Pshaw ! you know very well you never give 
me a chance; you always dodge the question. 
Tell me now, in plain words; will you take Tom 
H—‘for better for worse?’ You can’t find 
one to love you better, and you may fare worse in 
looking farther.” 

“ You are going to sea next week, Tom, are 
you not ?” 

“ Yes, and that’s just why I want to know 
what you mean to do.” 

“ Suppose I promise to give you an answer 
when you come home, Tom ?” 

“ By the Lord, that beats all: no, no, May, 
that won’t do : after tossing about on the ocean 
for two or three years, and thinking of you all the 


time, I may come home just in time to attend 
your wedding with some land-lubber—no—tell 
me now whether you care any thing about me.” 

“I will give you my solemn promise, Tom, 
to remain unmarried, nay, even unengaged until 
you return, and then I will answer your ques¬ 
tion : will that suit you ?” 

Tom was by no means pleased with these 
terms, but as he could make no better ones with 
the wilful girl, and as her blandishments at last 
succeeded in reconciling him to her whim, he 
was forced to content himself with the hope held 
out to him in the future. Could he have looked 
into May’s heart, or threaded the labyrinths of 
her scheming brain, he would not have been quite 
so resigned to her will. 

Three days before the sailing of the good ship 
Ann, (of whose hardy crew, Tom H— was 
rather a favorable specimen,) it was understood 
that Louis W• — had obtained a berth in her. 
Nothing could exceed the surprize which this 
strange resolution occasioned. But the young 
student listened quietly to the wondering remarks 
of his neighbors, parried their coarse jests about 
his slender frame, and delicate habits, and dili¬ 
gently went on with the arrangements necessaty 
for his voyage. Nobody could imagine what 
had induced him to abandon his long-cherished 
hopes of literary advancement, for the hardships 
of the sea. There was one person, however, 
who could have solved their doubts. May 
Morton could have told why Louis had donned 
the garb of an “ old salt,” instead of the Fresh¬ 
man’s robe. She knew how she had listened to 
his tales of knightly valor and love in olden time; 
—how she had avowed her belief in the existence 
of modern chivalry;—how she had breathed a 
half-sorrowful wish that she might yet meet with 
such devoted faith;—how she had hinted at her 
romantic dream that she should yet find one who 
would sacrifice his dearest hopes and peril life 
and limb in the fulfilment of some desperate 
vow, for her sake;—how she had dwelt on her 
reverence for manly courage;—how she had 
depicted in glowing colors the dangers of those 
who “ go down to the sea in ships,” and do battle 
with the monsters of the deep;—how enthusias¬ 
tically she had extolled the daring boldness of 

Tom H-; in short, how she played upon the 

love, the pride, the ambition, the jealousy of 
Louis; until, in the wild fervor of passion, he 
had flung himself at her feet and vowed to do her 
bidding, even if his life were the sacrifice. Then 
it was that she told him, as frankly as her way¬ 
ward nature would allow, of all her doubts and 
all her yearnings;—then it was that Louis learned 


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LOVE AND WHALING. 


27 


to before himself beloved, although the pride of 
woman's heart was still unsatisfied in the lover. 
The consequence of all this was exactly what 
May desired. Louis resolved to show that the 
powerful will of a strong mind can do as much as 
mere animal courage could effect; and with the 
same heroic self-devotion as might have led a 
knight to the battle-field for his ladye-love, did 
he assume the garb of a mariner, and devote 
himself to an enterprize as distasteful as it was 
dangerous. 

May Morton had played a strange game, but 
it was perfectly consistent with her character. 
She loved Louis as well as she was capable of 
loving any one; she admired his talents, although 
she could, by no means, fully appreciate them; 
she was proud of having inspired affection in 
such a heart; she liked his poetic wooing ; but 
ehe had been so long accustomed to associate 
her idea of manliness with merely physical quali¬ 
ties, that she could not understand the superi¬ 
ority of moral courage. She fancied that by 
arousing him from his dreamy, student-life, and 
affording him more practical views of existence, 
she should do him a service. She inly resolved 
that if he were found equal to the exigencies of 
his new position, she would reward him with her 
heart and hand, while her insincere pledge to 

Tom H . was intended to conciliate him, so 

that Louis might find a friend, or, if need were, 
a guardian amid the unaccustomed perils of the 
sea. She had too often ‘ kept the word of 
promise to the ear, and broke it to the hope,' to 
care much about her double dealing with the 
honest sailor. All succeeded as she wished; 
with a heart as full of pride as sorrow, she bade 
adieu to her lovers, and witnessed with bright 
though tearful eyes, the departure of the white¬ 
winged ship, which bore away two true and 
faithful hearts. 

But how did May pass the long and weary 
months of absence? how did she occupy the time 
while her lover was tossing on the wild waves, 
and facing the hardships of the sea? by what 
gentle and tender penance of the heart did she 
repay his self-sacrifice and devotion ? The 
question would scarce be asked by one who had 
read the nature of a coquette. With such a 
woman, love is not the religion of the heart,— 
the tried and trusted faith of the affections,— 
the undoubted creed by whose doctrines her 
whole life is to be regulated. May’s look into 
the future, did not prevent her enjoyment of the 
present, and feeling that her destiny was in a 
manner fixed, she gave herself up to the plea¬ 
sures and triumphs of the passing moment, 


unconscious and regardless of the moral infi¬ 
delity of which she was guilty. 

It would require a more nervous hand than 
mine to describe the perils and adventures of a 
whaling voyage. From the time that Louis set 
foot on the deck of the ship which was to be his 
home for two long years, he was a different 
being. Never had he pondered a truth in phi¬ 
losophy with more earnestness than he now* 
studied the minute details of sailor-life. He 
applied himself to his new and harsh duties with 
a resoluteness of purpose which is ever ennobling 
and invigorating to the soul. His strength of 
will was brought to bear upon the daily duties of 
external life, and, as if by magic, the abstracted 
student was transformed into the active and effi¬ 
cient mariner. The energy of a mind which 
never slumbered, was transformed into the feeble 
body, and nobly did the youth evince the superiori¬ 
ty of mental and moral force over physical defects. 
In the dangerous but exciting pursuit of the 
whale, Louis was ever foremost, and fourteen of 
these huge monsters of the deep, harpooned by 
his single hand, attested his daring and his skill. 
Fortune seemed to throw in his way opportuni¬ 
ties for indicating bis manliness of character. 
During nearly the whole voyage, Tom H ■ 
who had, on all former occasions, been noted 
for his rash bravery, was disabled by slight acci¬ 
dents, which impaired his usefulness, without 
endangering his safety; while Louis, notwith¬ 
standing his apparent feebleness of frame, was 
able to distinguish himself in every encounter. 

Louis had won for himself an enviable repu¬ 
tation among the hardy seamen who were now 
his companions and rivals, when a sudden stop 
was put to his success. While engaged in the 
pursuit of a whale of the largest size, the animal, 
infuriated by his wounds, turned like a stag at 
bay, and heading the boat, (to use a technical 
phrase,) drove it before him with frightful 
velocity, then, suddenly, while the sea was 
lashed into a whirlpool of foam by the fierce 
blows of his enormous tail, he expanded his 
huge mouth, and seized the frail bark in his iron 
jaws. Fortunately for the little crew, it was the 
creature’s last spasmodic struggle for life. The ' 
boat was ground to fragments by his fearful 
death-grip, but, at the same instant, the monster 
plunged headlong into the abyss of waters, and, 
again rising to the surface, floated a lifeless car¬ 
cass on the ensanguined waves. The boats, 
which are always kept in readiness for such acci¬ 
dents, rescued the sailors from theii imminent 
peril, but it was to the strength and perseverance 
of Tom H- that Louis owed his safety. 


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28 


LOVE AND WHALING. 


When lifted into the boat, he was found to be 
senseless, and bleeding from several deep wounds 
in the neck and shoulder. In seizing the boat, 
the jaws of the whale had partially closed upon 
the writhing body of the young sailor. Fear- 
fully close had been the contact, for a slight 
gash on the cheek, showed the first touch of 
that adamantine grasp, while deep and dangerous 
wounds on the right arm and breast, bore witness 
how narrowly he had escaped a frightful death. 

“By the Lord! but this comes pretty nigh 
making a Jonah of one’s self!*’ was the excla¬ 
mation of the merry Tom H—, as he bore his 
friend and rival to the distant ship. But Louis 
was insensible alike to jesting or sympathy. 
The severity of his injuries, and the ill effects of 
the half-drowning which he had suffered, were 
not to be easily removed. Weeks elapsed ere 
he was considered convalescent, and even then 
he was unable to do seaman’s duty during the 
remainder of the voyage. 

Weak, sick, and only half attended, (for in 
the busy world of a whaleship, there is little time 
for the ministry of kindly cares,) Louis was 
thrown entirely upon himself and compelled, in 
despite of his resolve, to indulge his introversive 
habits of thought. As he lay amid the distract¬ 
ing sounds and noisome swells of his floating 
prison, visions of the green earth, with its wealth 
of beauty, and perfume and music, came before 
his dreamy senses, until, like the maddened 
tenant of a slave-ship, he could have flung him¬ 
self upon the waste of waters, with delirious 
longing to be borne by its wild surges to some 
peaceful shore. In the vague dreams of fever, 
came those half-formed schemes which had so 
charmed his youththe lofty visions of awaken¬ 
ing intellect ;~the noble purposes of develop¬ 
ing usefulnessthe angel-winged fancies of 
poetic inspiration;—the beautiful creations of 
mental power-the rainbow-tinted hopes of 
future renown ; and while their unreal splendors 
gave a momentary brightness to his dreary exis¬ 
tence, their transitory gleams but added deeper 
darkness to the reality in which he felt himself 
enchained. 

And how then did the image of his loved and 
lovely one appear? Did May Morton stand 
before him in the vagueness of his dreams, pale 
and beautiful with womanly tenderness ? Did 
he look forward with the impatient yearning of 
hope deferred, to the moment when he should 
claim from her hand the reward of his chivalric 
devotion ? or did the hours of stern reflection 
bring back the resolves of his higher and nobler 
nature ? 


“ There is a glory of the sun, another of the 
moon, and another of the stars,* 1 thought Louis ; 
“ and even thus has God allotted unto every one 
on earth his duty and his station. I have de¬ 
spised the voice of the oracle within my own 
soul; mine eyes have been gifted with power to 
behold the glories of inner life, but I have turned 
from its pure delights to the sordid pursuits of 
outward existence. Instead of turning to account 
the talent with which I was entrusted, I have 
flung it away like a worthless thing, and sought 
to win another in its stead. What account can 
I give of my stewardship ? I have despised the 
noble gifrs of mind, and have prized at higher 
value the thews and sinews of animal life: verily 
I have my reward.** 

A few months later saw the good ship Ann 
cast anchor before the town of N—> and there 
was genuine feeling hid beneath the anxioue 
manner and flushed cheek of May Morton when 
she heard the tidings. None but those who 
have witnessed the return of husbands, brothers, 
friends, of whom for months, it may be, years, 
the winds have brought no tidings, can imagine 
the excitement which attends the return of a 
whaleship to its port of clearance. With min¬ 
gled pride and tenderness May awaited the visit 
of her two suitors. Rumors of the prowess of 
Louis soon reached her ears, for such news flies 
rapidly in a place where community of interest 
makes community of feeling ; and she knew that 
in the little world of N—, Louis was now a 
hero. She thought of his gentle wooing, of his 
impassioned tenderness, of his deep, fervent love; 
and the softness of remorseful affection crept 
over her heart, as she remembered the fearful 
risks at which he had sought to purchase her 
regard. An impatient restlessness to greet him, 
now took full possession of her, and it needed all 
her woman’s tact to conceal her unquiet feel¬ 
ings. A letter was handed her. She read 

“I have done your bidding, beautiful May ;—I have been a 
wanderer on the seas, and have given battle to its monsters, 
and 1 bave won deep and honorable scars in the conflict. I 
have perilled life to fulfil mv vow, for even the spear may fail 
before the scale-armor of the Leviathan. And now, aweet 
May, as a reward for my faith and knightly trust, let me pray 
you to listen to a tale of olden times. 

“There was once a hold, brave knight, and he dearly loved 
a lady fair and hcuutiful, it may be, as yourself, loveliest May ; 
ay, fair, and it may be, as wayward and distrustful. 8he would 
fuin try the courage of this trusty knight; and bow think you 
che compassed this end? There was a show of wild beast* 
in the amphitheatre,—a fierce conflict between tbe aavage 
denizens of the forest; and nobles and dames, the flower of 
chivalry, and the bloom of beauty were seated to witness the 
array of brutal strength. A lion, untamable and cruel, fresh 
from hi* native wilds, was traversing the arena, lashing bit 
tail in fury as be awaited his antagonists, who growled in im¬ 
potent rage from their grated barriers. At this moment,—do 
not despise the legend, gentle May ; you wore wont to love 
my tales of chivalry,—at this moment, the fair and proud lady 
flung into the arena her pearl-embroidered glove, and bade him 
who loved her best among the assembled crowd, to win it back, 
as he would deserve her favor. There were those near who 
bad worn her color* in tbe field, and who had bound her scarf 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


29 


around their gallant hearts, but all now looked aghast nt the 
certaiu death to which thecHlm and lovely ladye doomed them. 
Then arose her ow n true knirht,—he who bud loved her so long 
and well,—winding his cloak around his left arm, while lii.« 
right hand grasped his trusty sword, he descended into the 
arena. The fixed guzc of his fearless eye awed the savage 
beast as it prepared to spring upon its victim. He walked 
caluily to the spot where lay the silken glove, bending on his 
knee in all fealty, he lifted it from the earth, pressed it courte¬ 
ously to his lip?, and then raising it on the point of his sword, 
laid it at bis ladye’s feet, as she sat bending in breathless eager¬ 
ness over the tapestried balcony. He left the arena with o 
stately step, unharmed, and amid the plaudits of the multitude ; 
but he looked upon that lady's fate no more. He had proved 
himself worthy of her love ; but the prxit had lost its value. 
Do you read my tale aright, dear May 1” 

Years have passed away since these things 

happened. Louis W- is now the poet-pas 

tor of a people who love him as their spiritual 
father; his lovely and gentle wife, a woman 
chosen by his better and holier nature, is as 
good as she is beautiful, while but for the scars 
which still remain on his body, (those of his 
heart have long been healed,) the tale of perils 
past would be to him but as a dream. A career 
of honor and usefulness has been his, and he is 
now enjoying the peace which the world cannot 
give. 

May Morton has long been the wife of the 

good-natured but coarse-minded Tom H-, 

and her appearance as a fat, comfortable-look¬ 
ing, somewhat florid-faced matron, does credit 
to her husband's kindness. Some half dozen 
young giants who call her mother, engross all 
her cares, and the bewitching coquette of early 
days is entirely lost in the busy, bustling house¬ 
hold drudge of middle life. 


Original. 

THE HOSE AND THE TOMB.* 

BT MART E. HEWITT. 

Thou that dwell’st within my shadow,— 

To the rose than said the tomb,— 

Love’s flower! that here in freshness 
Bloom’st alone, amid the g'oom— 

Thou that clingest to the sepulchre. 

Like a fadeless memory; 

What dost thou with the early tears 
That the morning sheds on thee 7 
And the rose, low I renthing, answered, 

I distill a perfume here; 

And I give its honied fragrance forth 
To the solemn atmosphere. 

And thou, dark tomb ! discover 
What dost thou, amid thy walls, 

With the pale and silent guests that throng 
Thine ever open halls 7 
And the tomb said, of the beautiful 
That to mine abode are given; 

For each pulseless form I yield,, oh ! rose 1 
An angel soul to Heaven. 

* From the French of Victor Hugo. 

4 


Original. 

THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF u THE YEMASSE,” “ THE KINSMEN,*' ETC. 


THE HUGUENOTS IN AMERICA. 

We have a very correct, but somewhat spirit¬ 
less history of the Huguenots, in Europe, from 
the pen of Mr. Brouning; but a history of the 
Huguenots, in America, is yet to be written. 
Few subjects might be made more interesting. 
Whether as regards the singular and eventful 
circumstances which marked their fortunes in 
the new world, or the great names which they 
have given to our history, they certainly deserve, 
and will, hereafter, doubtless receive the atten¬ 
tion of the historian. Their settlements in Caro¬ 
lina, as well after as before the coming of the 
English, are marked equally by the sad vicissi¬ 
tudes which they were made to suffer, and the 
religious firmness of their endurance. It is not 
so generally known that their colonies on the 
continent of the new world are almost coeval 
with those of the Spaniards. These colonies 
were suggested by the active genius, and at 
length commenced by the persevering energies 
of Gaspard de Coligni, Admiral of France, and 
one of the great leaders, with the yet more cele¬ 
brated Cond6, of the Protestant party in that 
country. Coligni, with that sagacity which dis¬ 
tinguished him very far above his more renowned 
associate, very soon discovered, after the eleva¬ 
tion of Charles VI. to the throne of France, that 
the future security of the Huguenots was at an 
end in that country. The pbrenzied hostility of 
the King, and the colder but more malignant 
hate of the Queen-mother, were conspicuous to 
his eyes, in spite of the hollow compromises and 
deceptive truces, with which the Protestant 
leaders too frequently suffered themselves to be 
drawn ; and, availing himself of the interval from 
open war, occasioned by the treaty of Lougju- 
roeau,—that treaty, ludicrously styled by the 
Huguenots, la paix brifeuse et malassise , in allu¬ 
sion to the lameness of one of the plenipotentia¬ 
ries, (Buiu,) and the seignorial denomination of 
the other, (Henry de Mesmes, Lord of Malas- 
sisse )—he addressed himself to the task of esta¬ 
blishing colonies of Protestants in America, in 
which, should circumstances require it, their 
brethren in France might, at any future time, 
find refuge. Charles was readily persuaded to 
a measure which promised to relieve him of sub¬ 
jects who were equally dangerous and hateful, 
and an expedition was fitted out for Brazil in 
1553, which failed. Coligni was not discour- 


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30 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


aged. Florida, claimed equally by Spain, Franee j 
and England, lay derelict; and, on the eigh-] 
teenth day of February, 1562, he despatched j 
John Ribault, with two vessels, well-manned and 
provided, in quest of places fit for settlements in 
that region. Landonniere, in his narrative of 
-this event, gives a somewhat different coloring to 
the objects, as well of Coligni, as of the monarch. 
He writes,— 44 my Lord Admiral of Chastellon, 
(Coligni,) a nobleman more desirous of the pub- 
lique than of his private benefits, understanding 
the pleasure of the King, his Prince, which was 
to discover new and strange countries, caused 
vessels fit for this purpose to be made ready with 
all diligence, and men to be levied meet for such 
an enterprize.” This is merely courtly lan¬ 
guage. There is no doubt among historians, 
not only that the settlements originated with 
Coligni himself, but that they were devised for 
the object mentioned ; and he simply made use 
of a pretext, which seemed plausible enough in 
that age of new discoveries in strauge lands, the 
more readily to persuade the King to a measure 
upon which, otherwise, he would never have 
embarked. But it does not need, in carrying 
out our purpose, that we should linger upon this 
question. Let us follow the adventurous navi¬ 
gators while they prosecute their voyage to the 
west. We pass over the minor discoveries made 
by Ribault,—how they entered rivers, to which 
they gave French names, set up pillars marked 
with the arms of France, and exercised all those 
ceremonies and formalities, by which, in those 
days, the discoverer in heathen lands, asserted 
for his sovereign the rights which his discovery 
was supposed to confer. The narrative of this 
progress is interesting from its very simplicity, 
and, but that ours is not a history, we should be 
pleaded, here and there, to gleam from its black- 
letter pages, the pleasant anecdote of picturesque 
detail. At length, however, carrying out the 
real object of the Huguenot leader, they choose 
a site, suitable, as they imagine, for an infant 
settlement, and at the mouth of a mighty river, 
large enough to float “ the arguzies of Venice,” 
to which they gave the name of Port Royale,— 
they cast anchor. On a fertile island in this 
river—the exact spot being, at this day, a sub¬ 
ject of doubt and controversy, a fort is built, w in 
length but sixteene fathome, and thirteene in 
breadth, with flankes according to the propor¬ 
tion thereof.” Twenty-six were caused to re¬ 
main in this fort, under the command of one 
Captain Albert, and, provided with the necessary 
stores, as well of defence as of necessity, the 
little colony, thus set down in the wilderness of 


| the red man, is abandoned for the time to its 
j doubtful fortuues. 

| It will be our purpose to pursue their fortunes, 

I and pluck, if possible, from the unwritten history, 
the detailed events of their melancholy fate. Sad 
, enough will it have been, even if no positive evil 
j shall befall them,—that severance from their 
t comrades,—that separation from the old homes 
I of their fathers in la belle France ^—that lonely 
j abode on the verge of 44 ocean’s grey and melan- 
; choly waste,” on the one band, and the dense, 
dark, repelling forests of Apalachy on the other, 
j —doubtful of all they see,—apprehensive of every 
sound that reaches them from the wilderness, 
and filled with no better hope than that which 
springs up in the human bosom, when assured 
that all hope is cut off,—the hope which is 
brought by necessity and despair. Cheerfully 
enough, under these circumstances, did this 
little colony, under their new commander, enter 
upon their lonely duties. Ribault, before leaving 
them, made them a speech full of encourage¬ 
ment and exhortation. He insisted very much 
on the importance of the trust confided to their 
hands,—on the honor and profit to themselves in 
the event of the enterprize turning out success¬ 
ful, and, drawing his illustrations from Greek, 
Roman and Turkish history, he showed them 
how they might each come to the highest social 
destination, only by doing their duties honestly 
and with valiant hearts. To Captain Albert he 
addressed a special charge, exhorting him to 
wisdom and moderation in his government,—an 
exhortation, which, we regret to say, seems to 
have fallen upon unheeding senses. The simple 
sentence which records the leave-taking, is touch¬ 
ing from its very simplicity. 44 Having ended his 
exhortation, we tooke our leaves of each of them, 
and sayled toward our shippes, calling the forte 
by the name of Charles, and the river by the 
name Chenonceau. Wee hoysed our sayles 
about ten of the clocke in the morning: after 
wee w T ere ready to depart, Captain Ribault com¬ 
manded to shoote oft' our ordinance, to give a 
farewell unto our Frenchmen, which failed not 
to do the like on their part. This being done, 
wee sayled toward the north.” 

The colonists, thus left by their country¬ 
men, proceeded diligently to make themselves as 
secure as possible in their new abodes. They 
strengthened and completed their fortifications, 
maintained a good watch upon the surrounding 
neighborhood, and, in the loneliness of their 
position, and their desire to increase their knowl¬ 
edge of the strange country in which their pre¬ 
sent lot was cast, they became anxious to see the 


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I 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


31 


natives, even though they should make their 
appearance in the guise of enemies. A fortu¬ 
nate chance enabled them to persuade an Indian 
hunter, upon whom they came suddenly in the 
woods, to visit them in the fort, where he was 
well treated, dressed in a shirt, and presented 
with sundry trifles. These won his heart, and 
through his means an intimacy was effected with 
several of the neighboring chiefs. Visits were 
interchanged and gifts;—the simple savages 
brought their stores of maize and beans to the 
strangers, and a friendship was struck up in a 
very short time between the parties. It is not 
difficult to win the affections of an inferior people, 
where the superior is kind, and regards the igno¬ 
rance of the other with indulgence. The French 
have been more generally successful than any 
other nation, in gaining the affections of the 
savage, and Captain Albert’s policy did not vary 
from that which usually distinguished his coun¬ 
trymen. Their intimacy at length grew to such 
a degree, that, in the language of the old Chro¬ 
nicle from which we draw, u all thinge were com¬ 
mon between them; in such sort, that the good 
Indian King, Andusta, did nothing of importance 
but that he called our men thereunto.” It was 
while such was the condition of things, that the 
tragical events took place which furnish the 
materials for the following tradition. 

GUERNACHE, THE DRUMMER. 

One of the handsomest and finest fellows of 
the little colony of Frenchmen, was a drummer 
of the band, named Guernache. Sprung from 
the lowest origin, Guernache, but for his want of 
education, might have been deemed born among 
the highest circles of the court. He was of tall 
and noble figure, and of carriage so elegant and 
graceful, that he was an object of admiration, 
even among Frenchmen, who generally possess 
so much elegance and grace. Besides, he was a 
fellow of the happiest humor, all good nature 
and merriment, whose eye spoke in gaiety, and 
whose whole soul was ever on the alert to seize 
on the passing pleasure, and force it to the pur¬ 
poses of those around him. Never was fellow so 
fortunate in finding occasions of merriment, and 
happy was the Frenchman who could procure 
Guernache as a companion in his labor. The 
task was sped, the toil was unfelt in which he 
shared; he had no enemy, and he might readily 
select bis companions where he pleased. His 
success was not confined to his own countrymen. 
He found equal favor in the sight of the graver 
Indians. He was a fellow of great agility,—had 
belonged in France and Italy, to a company of 


strolling players, and his skill on tight and slack 
rope, if we are to credit old stories, would have 
put to the blush the far inferior performances of 
Herr Cline and the Ravels in modem times. It 
was through his means, and partly by his inge¬ 
nuity, that the Indian was first brought to the 
fort, through whose agency the intimacy was 
effected with his people; and during this inti¬ 
macy, Guernache proved, in various ways, one 
of the principal means of confirming the favora¬ 
ble impressions which the Indian had received 
on his first visit to the Frenchmen. Nothing, 
indeed, could be done without Guernache, and, 
at length, the simple savages, ignorant of the 
social position which the drummer held among 
his own people, would send to invite him to their 
feasts, without considering the claims of any 
body else. Guernache had only to carry his 
violin with him,—for he was an excellent musi¬ 
cian,—to secure the highest degree of favor; 
and it was not long before he had such another 
class for dancing on the banks of the Edisto,— 
of such uncouth forms and figures,—as would 
have startled, with never-lessening wonder, the 
courtly nymphs of the Seine and the Loire*. 
King Andusta, though of advanced years, was yet 
emulous of the Parisian movement, and man 
and maid, the agile and the awkward, were all 
to be seen, in promiscuous figure, and strange 
contortion, under the palms and oaks of Chrande 
Riviere, whenever it was permitted to Guernache 
to make his appearance among them. 

At first, this permission was readily granted by 
Captain Albert. His policy, being to secure the 
favor of the Indians, it was deemed fortunate that 
so excellent an agent as Guernache should be 
found among them. But Albert was a very small 
person, of a mean nature, though the cadet of a 
noble house. It was, indeed, because of this 
distinction, that the command had been con¬ 
ferred upon him. Effeminate in his habit, low 
and mean of person, he was not only querulous 
and tyrannical in his nature, but he was deficient 
in resources. His mind was narrow and full of 
prejudices, and be very much insisted, as small 
persons are apt to do, on the nicest observance 
of social etiquette. He soon became jealous of 
the degree of favor which Guernache had found 
among the savages, and though a sense of policy 
still prompted him to suffer his visits to the 
Indians, either on his own or their application, 
he yet lessened the frequency of these permits, 
or accorded them ungraciously. 

It so happened that Guernache’s popularity 
among the savages, male and female, had ena¬ 
bled him to effect a conquest over the affections 


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32 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


of one of the latter ; and, after the informal fash- i 
ion of the country, the drummer had made the ; 
girl his wife. She was a beautiful creature, 
scarcely more than sixteen, tall and slender, and 
so naturally graceful and agile, that it needed 
but little of his instructions to make her a 
dancer whose movements would not have mis- 
beseemed the most courtly theatres in La Belle 
France. Monaletta,—for that was her name,— 
was an apt pupil because she was a loving one, 
and she heartily responded to that sentiment of 
wonder, common among the savages, who could 
not contain their surprize, that the Frenchmen 
should place themselves under the command of 
a man, so mean of person as Albert, when they 
had among them so noble a figure as that of 
Guernache. But, in taking this girl to wife, 
Gueruache kept his secret. Whether he was 
apprehensive of the ridicule of his comrades, or 
feared the diminution of his influence among the 
other Indians, by an avowal of the truth, it is 
very certain that he succeeded in persuading her 
to keep the secret also. It did not lessen, per¬ 
haps, the pleasure of his visits to the settlements 
of Audusta that the peculiar joys which he sought 
were to be stolen. It may be stated in this place 
that, in order to prevent certain abuses among his 
men, Captain Albert had interdicted the visits of 
all Indian women to the fort,—an interdict, how¬ 
ever, which Guernache was not likely to offend 
against, as a peculiar, but natural jealousy, had 
already prompted him repeatedly to deny this 
privilege to Monaletta, by whom it had been 
frequently solicited. 

Things stood thus, when, one day, a messen¬ 
ger from King Andusta came to Charles Fort, 
bearing a special invitation to the Captain, and as 
many of his men as he thought proper to bring,— 
but particularly Guernache—to come and attend 
with them the “feast of Toya.” This was a 
great religious festival of the Indians, and seems 
to have taken place sometime towards the close 
of the summer. It was, in all probability, the 
feast in which they celebrate, after the laws of 
national religion, the maturing of their little 
crops. At all events, it was a great occasion 
with the Indians; and, as the Frenchmen were 
naturally anxious to acquire as much knowledge 
of their customs as possible, Captain Albert, readily 
acceded to the invitation, and prepared to attend 
the rustic revels of Aodusta. Taking with him 
a fair proportion of his little band, and not omit¬ 
ting the inimitable Guernache, the Captain of 
the French embarked in his pinnace, and sailing 
up the river, soon reached the spot where An- 
,dusta made his habitation. The King met him 


at the landing, and gave him a hearty welcome; 
mats were spread upon the floor of the royal 
wigwam, upon which the French were seated, 
and attended with a deference and bounty not 
unbecoming royalty. There they slept that 
night, and the next day preparations for the 
great festival were began. It would be difficult 
to say to what end were the ceremonies of the 
Indians. As we have no explanation of their 
fables, so we fail to perceive the motive of many 
of their fantastic proceedings. The difficulty 
which is ours, was not less that of Albert and his 
Frenchmen, who were compelled to behold them 
with a curiosity which did not appear likely to be 
soon satisfied. The place where the feast was 
to be kept, “was a great circuit of ground with 
open prospect and round in figure.” Here they 
beheld “ many women round about, which 
labored by all means to make the place cleane 
and neat.” “All they which were chosen to 
celebrate the feast, being painted and trimmed 
with rich feathers of divers colors, put themselves 
on the way to go from the King’s house towards 
the place of Toya: whereunto, when they were 
come, they set themselves in order, and followed 
three Indians, which, in painting and in gesture, 
were differing from the rest: each of them bore a 
tabret in their hand, dancing and singing in a 
lamentable tune, when they began to enter into 
the middest of the round circuit, being followed 
of others, which answered them again. After 
that they had sung, danced and turned three 
times, they fell on running like unbridled horses 
through the middest of the thickest woods. And 
then the Indian women continued all the rest of 
the day in tears as sad and woful as was possible : 
and in such rage they cut the arms of the young 
girles, which they lanced so cruelly with sharpe 
; shells of muskles that the blood followed, which 
they flang into the ayre, crying out three times, 
* He Toya ! He Toya ! He Toya !’ ” 

These ceremonies, though perhaps not more 
meaningless in the eyes of the Christians, than 
would have been our most solemn religious pro¬ 
ceedings to the Indians, provoked the laughter of 
the Frenchmen,—a circumstance which seems to 
have given offence to the Indian King, and this 
displeasure was further heightened by a pro¬ 
ceeding of Captain Albert. It appears that one 
portion of the ceremonies was required to be 
conducted in secret, and with no little mystery. 
There was a part of the woods, a deep thicket, 
assigned to the Iawas, or priests, as a place for 
these mysterious offices. This was the sanc¬ 
torum, the consecrated place—set apart to their 
Holy of Holies—not to be passed or penetrated, 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


33 


except by the sacred feet of the High Priests, in 
actual ministry before the altar. In order to 
prevent the Frenchmen from penetrating to this 
spot, Andu9ta, at the proper moment, had them 
all gathered within his dwelling, where they were 
treated with marked kindness and distinction. 
But as it was evident to Albert, that the King had 
something to conceal, so he resolved if possible, 
to possess himself of the secret; and, holding a 
brief consultation with his men, he proposed that 
one of them should steal forth, and finding his 
way to the forbidden spot, place himself in such 
a position as would enable him to make the dis¬ 
covery. To this proceeding, Guernache, whose 
greater intimacy with the Indians led him pro¬ 
perly to understand the great importance which 
they attached to secresy in their religious cere¬ 
monies, apposed himself; and, arguing with the 
frankness and honesty of his character, warned 
his Captain that the measure would be attended 
with great hazard, and, if detected, would seriously 
offend their entertainers. But, already disposed, 
from the circumstances previously mentioned, to 
regard Guernache with dislike, Albert, resented 
this counsel as so much impertinence—rudely 
commanded the Drummer to remember who he 
was, and not thrust his undesired opinions upon 
the consideration of gentlemen. This rebuke 
effectually silenced the poor fellow, who sunk 
back into his place, and offered no further 
suggestions. Still, though thrown away upon 
Albert, the counsel of Guernache was not without 
its effect upon others, and the proposition was 
received with coldness, until a young man, one 
Pierre Renaud* anxious to find favor in the sight 
of his Captain, and possibly too curious to make 
the discovery himself, to regard the risk which 
he incurred, boldly volunteered to gratify the 
desires of the Chief. Notwithstanding the sur¬ 
veillance maintained by Andusta, u one of our 
men made such shift that by subtle meanes he 
gotte out of the house of Andusta and secretly 
went and hid himselfe behinde a very thick bush, 
where, at his pleasure he might easily descry the 
ceremonies of the feast.” We will leave Renaud 
thus busy in his espionage, while we rehearse the 
manner in which the venerable Andusta pro¬ 
ceeded to treat the rest of his company. A sub¬ 
stantial feast was provided them, consisting of 
venison, wild fowl and fruits. Their bread stuffs 
were maize, betatas and certain roots sodden first 
in water and then prepared in the sun. A drink 
was provided from certain other roots, which, 
though slightly bitter, our complaisant French 
did not find unpalatable. They ate and drank 
with a hearty relish, which gratified the Indians, 


who lavished upon them a thousand caresses. 
The feast was succeeded by the dance. In a 
spacious area formed by groups of stately oaks 
and palms, cedaas and other trees, they assem¬ 
bled, men and women, all in their gayest capari¬ 
son. The men were painted from head to foot 
in the most brilliant colors, and not unartistically. 
Birds and beasts figured upon their breasts, and 
huge reptiles encircled their arms and legs. 
From their waists depended a light garment of 
white cotton. Some of them wore head-dresses 
consisting of the skins of snakes, which, stuffed, 
and coiled upon the crown, were made to thrust 
out their forked and fearful jaws in a manner 
equally frightful and natural. The women were 
habited in similarly wild, but in much gentler, 
taste. They were not often painted. A rather 
scanty robe of cotton concealed in some degree, 
the bosom, and extended to the knees. Around 
the necks of some were strings of native pearl, 
stained somewhat by the action of fire which had 
been employed to extricate them from the shell. 
Pearl also mingled ingeniously with the long 
tresses of their straight, black hair, trailing with 
it in not unfrequent instances to the ground. 
Others, in place of pearl, wore neck-laces, tiaras 
and armlets, formed entirely of the numerous 
varieties of little shells by which, after heavy 
storms, the low and sandy shores of the country 
were literally covered. Strings of the same shell 
encircled the legs, which were sometimes of a 
shape to gratify the nicest exactions of the civil¬ 
ized standard. Their forms were very erect, their 
movements agile, and their eyes, black and bright, 
shone with a fire that seemed happily to consort 
with their dusky but not unpleasing features. 
Well, indeed, with a pardonable vanity might 
they call themselves the Daughters of the Sun. 
These were the women, whose descendants after¬ 
wards, as Yemassees and Seminoles, became the 
scourge of so large a portion of the Anglo- 
American race. 

When the Frenchmen beheld this brilliant 
assembly, and saw what a pleasant show the 
young women made, they were delighted beyond 
measure. Upon which, Captain Albert com¬ 
manded Guernache to take his violin and 
furnish the music, while the rest danced. But 
Guernache excused himself, alleging the want 
of strings to his instrument; blit his true objec¬ 
tion was that he had been commanded by the 
Captain in a manner offensive to his pride. 
Snch performances made no part of his duty, 
and it appeared to him that the object of his 
commander seemed only to degrade and humble 
him. Albert spoke to him testily, and with 


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34 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


brows that did not seek to subdue their frowns; ] 
but Guernache remained firm and did not seek, 
either by word or look, to pacify the person he j 
had offended. Meanwhile, the Indians produced 
Indian music, which consisted of a drum formed 
by stretching a raw deerskin over the mouth of a 
huge gourd; while numerous girls carried in 
their hands other small gourds, filled with shells j 
and bits of flint, with which, as they danced, they 
kept time so admirably, as might have charmed 
the most exquisite musician of Europe. Thus 
provided, they awaited the summons of their | 
partners to the area, shaking their tinkling gourds 
at intervals, as if in pretty impatience of the { 
delay. The Frenchmen were not slow in | 
seeking partners, and, at a word from their ; 
Captain, they advanced, each seeking for the 
girl who pleased him most. Now, it so hap¬ 
pened, that Captain Albert had set his eyes upon 
no other than Monaletta, not only as one of the 
loveliest girls present, but on account of her 
being the niece of King Andusta, himself. She | 
stood apart from the rest, stately and graceful as j 
the cedar, not seeming to care for the merriment 
in which all the rest were now engaging. Not 
thinking to be refused, Captain Albert offered her 
his hand, and it was with a feeling of equal 
astonishment and indignation, that he heard her 
say in a broken French,—for she had been dili¬ 
gently tutored by Guernache—“ No dance wid ; 
you—dance wid him!”—and speaking these || 
words, she crossed the floor with all the bold j ( 
imprudence of a true, loving heart, to the place' 
where stood, with a most melancholy look ofh 
apprehension, our sorrowful and discontented 
Drummer. She put her hand upon his shoul- ' 
der, and looked up into bis face with an expres* j 
sion which said volumes—which said every thing. ■ 
She had seen the look of hate and anger given 
her by Albert, and she joyed in the opportunity 
to rebuke the one with her frown, and console 
the other with her sympathies. It was an un¬ 
happy error. Bitter was the glance which the 
mortified Captain now cast upon the pair as they 
stood apart. The eyes of Guernache now turned , 
from his sweetheart—his wife—to his commander. 
His look was one of deprecation. But it met with 
no answering kindness. A few stern words smote j 
his ears. 

“ Go to the pinnace, Guernache—remain in 
her. Away !” j 

The poor fellow turned off from Monaletta, in 
obedience, but he could not forbear saying, re¬ 
proachfully as he retired, to his superior: 

44 You push me too hard, Captain Albert!” 

44 No words, sir. Away!” was the stern re¬ 


sponse. The drummer disappeared. With hi* 
disappearance, Albert approached Monaletta, 
and renewed his application for her hand, only 
to meet with a more decided rejection than 
before. He looked to King Andusta,—but an 
Indian Princess enjoys a degree of social free* 
dom which the same class of persons in Europe, 
with all their power, would sigh for and suppli¬ 
cate in vain. Andusta said nothing,—did not 
interfere,—and Albert had the farther mortifica¬ 
tion of gathering from his countenance, that his 
proceedings towards Guernache,—who was a 
general favorite,—had very much lessened hint 
in the’ regards of the monarch. It was, there¬ 
fore, in no very pleasant mood with himself and 
those around him, that Albert consoled himself 
with the hand of an inferior partner in the dance. 
Jealous as well as querulous in mind,—the 
characteristics so very often together,—he was 
fond of dancing, and enjoyed the sport quite a* 
much as any of his companions, but his soul, 
stung and dissatisfied, was all the while brooding 
over its petty hurts, aud devising way9 of reveng¬ 
ing itself upon the offender by whom its mortifi¬ 
cations were first occasioned. Upon this bitter 
cud did he chew all the while that the dance 
was in progress, and in utter despite of all it* 
merry and soul-freeing occurrences. But this 
festivity was destined to have an interruption as 
singular as unexpected. While the merriment 
was at its highest, terrible screams of fright and 
anguish alarmed the assembly,—screams that 
seemed, to the Frenchmen, to issue from so 
European throat,—accompanied by wild cries, 
whoops of wrath, which as certainly came from 
the throats of infuriated savages. The music 
ceased,—the dance was arrested,—the French¬ 
men rushed to their arms, and boldly prepared 
for the worst, fully believing that they were envi¬ 
roned by treachery,—that they had been beguiled 
to the feast only to become its victims. While 
their suspense was greatest, the cause of the 
uproar made itself known, as, bursting through 
the thick woods by which they were surrounded, 
like a wounded deer, came at full speed, the spy, 
Pierre Renaud, who had volunteered his services 
to watch the Indian priests at their secret cere¬ 
monies. We have seen that he reached, without 
discovery, a place of concealment. But here his 
good fortune failed him. He was detected, 
“squat like a toad,” in his place of watch, and 
the Iawas fell upon him with the sharp instru¬ 
ments of flint with which they lanced and lacera¬ 
ted their own bodies. With these they inflicted 
upon him some very severe wounds. They 
would have slain him, for their rage was unmea- 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


35 


sured ; but being a fellow equally vigorous, light- 
footed and active, he broke away from them, and 
took to his heels. They followed him, howling 
with rage and fury, and calling upon the warriors 
whom they encountered, to stay and slay the 
fugitive. But his good genius favored bis flight. 
He was not, it seems, destined for such a death. 
He out ran his pursuers, and contrived to dodge 
those whom he by chance encountered, until, 
making his way to the scene now occupied by 
his comrades, he sank down, panting and exhaus¬ 
ted by loss of blood and fatigue, in the midst of 
them. The Iawas made their appearance a 
moment after, full of sacred fury. They de¬ 
manded, with loud outcries, the blood of the 
impious individual by whom their sacred retreat 
had been violated. They called upon Andusta, 
and appealed to their people, in a style of savage 
eloquence, the effects of which were soon evi¬ 
dent, in the inflamed features of the young war¬ 
riors. Already were they to be seen slapping their 
sides, tossing their arms in the air, and otherwise 
lashing themselves into a fury like that which 
filled their prophets. King Andusta looked con¬ 
founded, unwilling to give the word for war, yet 
unable to resist the clamors of the priesthood. 
He, too, demanded the blood of the offender at 
the hands of Captain Albert, though he urged 
the demand without any show of violence, and 
evidently with some reluctance. The French 
were firm—they surrounded the fugitive,—arms 
in readiness; and though seriously disquieted 
and apprehensive of the result, Albert was man 
enough to resolve that the agent of his own 
unwise curiosity should not be molested. But 
the clamor increased with the conviction, de¬ 
rived from his deportment, that no redress was to 
be given them. By this time the Indian war¬ 
riors had prepared their arms. More than an 
hundred of them surrounded the little band of 
Frenchmen, who were but thirteen in number. 
Bows were bent, lances set in rest, javelins 
lifted and sunk down, among the several parties. 
Already was to be seen the heavy club, or 
hatchet of stone, lifted and waving in the hands 
of some more furious savage—and nothing was 
wanting but a single blow to bring on the general 
massacre,—when Guernache, darted in between 
the opposing ranks, attended by the faithful 
Monaletta, and, with a grand crash upon his 
violin, now in good order, followed by a sudden, 
rapid gush of the merriest music, instantly pro¬ 
duced a revulsion of feeling among the savages, 
as complete as it was sudden! 

“ Ami! Ami! Ami!” was the cry from a 
dozen voices. This was one of the French 


words which they had first acquired ; and the 
conduct of Guernache, and their regard for him, 
had made its application to himself a thing of 
general usage. Time was gained, and this, in 
an outbreak of the sort described, is all that is 
necessary to stay the arm of slaughter. Guer¬ 
nache played out his tune, cut a few ludicrous 
antics in which Monaletta joined him, and the 
priests clamored for their victim in vain. The 
faithful drummer had probably saved the party 
from massacre,—for they were completely sur¬ 
rounded by the savages. The subsequent work 
of pacification was easy. The Iawas received 
some presents of gaudy costume, and the war¬ 
riors 6ome bells and gewgaws. Albert, with his 
comrades, retired in safty to his pinnace. 

But the Evil spirit raged within him, and the 
prompt fidelity which Guernache had shown, 
and without which, in all probability, a battle 
would have taken place between himself and the 
Indians, instead of inducing his gratitude, pro¬ 
voked his fury, as it mortified his pride to per¬ 
ceive that the savages made more account of his 
drummer than himself. He rebuked Guernache 
sharply for presuming to leave the pinnace against 
his orders, and even spoke of punishing him for 
this disobedience ;—but the murmurs of some of 
his own officers, and, perhaps, a little lurking 
feeling of shame, in his own bosom, prevented 
him from committing so disgraceful an act. But 
the feeling of hostility only rankled the more 
from suppression, and he soon contrived to show 
Guernache, and, indeed, every body beside, that 
from that hour, he was his most bitter and unfor¬ 
giving enemy. With a little and malignant 
spirit, he contrived, in various way 9 , to make the 
poor fellow suffer from his hatred. He subjected 
him to duties the most humiliating and trouble¬ 
some, and stinted him of all such privileges as were 
conceded to his comrades. But, all this would 
have been as nothing to Guernache, if he had not 
been denied the privilege of visiting, as before, 
the residence of his princess. Albert refused 
him permission to go to the territories of An¬ 
dusta, professing to be afraid that the priests 
might take vengeance upon him, for the miscon¬ 
duct of Pierre Renaud. But this pretence 
deceived nobody any more than it did Guer¬ 
nache. Little did the petty tyrant imagine that 
Guernache had a peculiar source of consolation 
for all these sufferings. His comrades treated 
him with a warmth of affection studiously pro¬ 
portioned to the ill-treatment of his Captain- 
assisted him in the severe labors put upon him, 
gave him company in the performance of his 
lonesome duties, and soothed him by the expres- 


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36 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


sion of an almost unanimous sentiment of sym¬ 
pathy, which did not always withhold the most 
severe denunciations of the commander’s tyranny. 
But a greater source of consolation than this, 
was found in the companionship of his young 
and high-spirited, loving and lovely, Indian 
Bride. Denied to see her lover at the village of 
Andusta—which was probably that now known 
among the Carolinians by the name of Coosa- 
whatchie,—she followed him to Charles Fort, 
and, without suffering herself to be seen, she 
lurked in the neighboring woods, until Guer- 
nache came forth, unattended, for the purpose, 
as was his frequent task, of cutting and procuring 
wood. Then it was that she rushed into his 
arms, and poured forth the full volume of her 
ardent attachment upon his breast—conducted 
him to the dense umbrageous retreat where her 
own hands had raised a rustic shelter, and declared 
her purpose of living there for him, in preference 
to living among her own people. An Indian 
woman is quite as much at home in the woods as 
an Indian warrior—acquires her resources of 
strength, dexterity and skill in his company, and, 
from similar necessities,—can build her own 
bower at night, raise her own fire, and, armed 
with the same weapons, can bring down the 
same game with a spirit and a success fully kin 
to his. It was no privation for Monaletta to take 
up her abode where Guernache found her. 
Shall it be wondered at if, under existing cir¬ 
cumstances, the delighted lover seldom slept 
within the limits of the fort. At midnight, when 
all was dark and quiet, he went over the walls, 
except when his turn of duty required him to 
watch within;—and such of his comrades as 
knew his secret, were too much his friends to 
betray him. Captain Albert wondered at his 
cheerfulness,—wondered that the irksome duties 
which he thrust upon him, and the frequently 
harsh language by which their performance was 
acknowledged, seemed to produce none of the 
effect intended. He neither grew sad nor sullen. 
His violin still resounded merrily at the instance 
of his companions, and his hearty laughter still 
rang through the encampment, smiting ungra¬ 
ciously upon the ears of his base-minded com¬ 
mander. In vain did this person increase the 
annoyances of his subordinate. His tyranny 
contrived daily some new method to make the 
poor fellow unhappy ; but, consoled by the 
peculiar sources which he had of sympathy, the 
worthy drummer bore up cheerfully under the 
pressure of persecution, resolved, if it became no 
worse, to wait patiently for the hour of relief upon 
the return of Ribault with the promised supplies 
from the colony. 


But, however docile, his patience and forbear¬ 
ance availed him little. It did not tend to miti¬ 
gate the annoyances he was called upon to 
endure. It so happened that, under a necessity 
of seeking farther supplies of provisions, Captain 
Albert,—taking with him some fifteen of his 
men,—set forth on a voyage of trade and disco¬ 
very, to the country of King Ouade, (on the 
River Belle,) by whom they were received with 
great courtesy, and a long oration. Some idea 
may be had of the degree of civilization to which 
the people of Ouade had attained, from the brief 
description which the old chronicle affords, of 
the dwelling and domestic decorations of this 
Indian monarch. “ His house was hanged about 
with Tapistrie of feathers of divers colours, the 
height of a pike. Moreover, the place where 
the King took his rest, was covered with white 
coverlettes, embroidered with devises of very 
wittie and fine workmanship, and fringed round 
about with a fringe dyed in the colour of skarles.” 
After freely providing the Frenchmen with “mil 
and beanes,” filling their “ pinnesse ”—this gene¬ 
rous Indian “ cased them to bring him sixe pieces 
of his Tapistrie, made like little coverlettes, and 
gave them to our men with so liberal a minde, as 
they easily percieved the desire which he had to 
become their friend.” Albert acknowledged this 
liberality by making presents of reaping-hooks 
and other trifles, which the savages esteemed to 
be sufficiently valuable; and, after an affection¬ 
ate leave-taking, he prepared to return to Fort 
Charles. Here they arrived only in season for a 
sad catastrophe. It was dark when they reached 
the landing, and some hours were employed, 
after night had set in, in storing away, in their 
granary, the newly acquired provisions. Fa¬ 
tigued by their labors, they were no sooner over 
than the soldiers surrendered themselves to sleep, 
from which they were suddenly aroused, at mid¬ 
night, by the dreadful cry of fire. The fort, the 
tenements in which they slept, the building which 
held their stores, the granary which contained 
their provisions, were all a-blaze, and great were 
the surprize and consternation of the French¬ 
men. Their military stores were saved,—their 
powder and munitions of war,—but the M mil and 
beanes,” so recently acquired, were destroyed, 
and their dwellings were swept in ashes to the 
ground. This event led to the partial discovery 
of the secret of our drummer. Guernache was 
was not within the fort when the alarm was given, 
but was discovered approaching it by those who 
were bearing forth the goods as they were res¬ 
cued from the flames. Among these was Pierre 
Renaud, a person who not only bore him no 


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THE ROMANCE OF* CAROLINA; 


37 


good will, but one who was a sycophant and 
mere creature of the governor. Oveijoyed at 
the discovery which he had made, this base 
fellow, who was the same that had undertaken 
the espionage upon the Indian priests in their 
secret ceremonies, immediately carried the story 
to his master, and when the first confusion of the 
fire was at an end, Guernacbe was taken into 
custody, and a day assigned for his examination 
as a criminal. 

Meanwhile, at the first intimation of the disas¬ 
ter which had happened to the Frenchmen, the 
good King Andusta made his appearance at the 
fort, with a numerous train of followers, who, at 
his exhortation, and coder his direction, turned 
m with such hearty good will to the work of 
rebuilding, that, in les9 than twelve hours, they 
had almost repaired the losses of the Frenchmen. 
New houses were built, new granaries erected, 
and among the fabrics of this busy period, it was 
not forgotten to construct a keep,—a close, dark, 
heavy den of logs, designed as a prison, into 
which our poor drummer, Guernache, was thrust, 
neck and heels, as soon as the Indians had taken 
their departure. He was brought forth for trial, 
a little after, on a variety of charges,—disobe¬ 
dience of orders, neglect of duty, insubordination 
and treason. Urtder the latter charge was classed 
the burning of the fort, which the furious com¬ 
mander was pleased to lay at his door. To all 
these, Guernache pleaded * not guilty,’ and none 
erf them were proven. But he was silent on the 
subject of bis absence from the fort on the night 
of the fire, and the circumstance being suspi¬ 
cious in itself, he was remanded to his dungeon I 
to await the farther caprices of his captain. 

Now, it so happened, to increase the farther 
danger of Guernache, and give occasion to Albert 
to exercise his hate against bim, that Monalettai, 
truly loving, impatient that he came not as was' 
bis wont, drew nigh to the fort, and maintained 
such a close and cunning watch upon it, upon 
those who came and those who went, that she 
soon found an opportunity of speech with one 
Lachane, otherwise affectionately called La 
Chert , by the soldiery. Lacbane was a sergeant, 
a good soldier, brave as a lion, yet so good- 
natured and gentle withal, that he was beloved 
by every body. There was a particular friend¬ 
ship existing between himself and Guernache, 
and he bad more than once striven to meliorate 
the condition of the other, when in bis power, 
Under the persecutions of Albert. Guernache 
had made Lacbane his confidante, and the stout 
sergeant could have told, had the other allowed 
him, on what business be had gonb from the 
5 


fort the night of the conflagration. When Guer* 
nacbe was finally committed to the dungeon, 
Lacbane became thoughtful in what way he 
could best communicate the reason of his ab¬ 
sence to Monaletta, and, being often upon the 
watch, be at length espied her from the fort, on 
one of the occasions when she stole out of the 
woods to look. He made signals to her, and she 
drew nigh to the fort, and, day by day, he gave 
her to understand the condition of affairs with 
the prisoner, to whom he also bore all necessary 
intelligence, and every message from Monaletta* 
But the impatient and devoted woman was not 
satisfied with this, and, in an evil hour, Lachane 
was persnaded to admit her within the fort, and 
into the dungeon of Gnernaehe. When could 
a generous Frenchman withstand the solicita¬ 
tions of the sex, particularly when, in so doing, 
he served his friend, and gratified a truly loving 
heart. Under the cover of night, he conducted 
her to the prison of her husband. Before the 
| dawn he conducted her forth in safety. The 
I offence wa9 repeated more than once, but not 
atways with the same fortunate results* Some¬ 
thing in his conduct awakened the suspicions of 
the same Pierre Renaud, whose active hostility 
to Guernache has already been shown, and who 
bore the unenviable reputation, in the fort, of 
being the captain’s spy upon the people. This 
fellow having noted the previous movements of 
Lachane, instituted a watch upon him, and had 
the malignant satisfaction of seeing him, one 
! night, enter the dungeon of Guernache accom¬ 
panied by another. Though it was after mid¬ 
night when the discovery was made, he well 
knew that the intelligence would be too grateful 
to Albert to make him scrupulous of arousing 
him at any hour; and taking care to avoid detec¬ 
tion in proceeding to the captain’s quarters, he 
made him acquainted with all that he had seen, 
and much more that he only suspected. Albert 
immediately arose, but fearing to make too pre¬ 
cipitate a movement, and unwilling, by a prema- 
I ture alarm, to give the offenders an opportunity 
to place themselves in a situation to defy scru¬ 
tiny, some time was lost in making arrangements. 
The sentries were doubled by Renaud with 
singular secrecy and skill. Indeed, in all mat¬ 
ters requiring no virtue superior to cunning, he 
was a most admirable proficient. Such of the 
soldiers as he conceived to be most particularly 
bound to him, were awakened, and placed ifi 
convenient positions for observation and action,*^ 
for Albert and himself, with the consciousness 
! of what they merited, snspected nothing less 
i from the people under him than treachery and 


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33 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


insurrection. Thus, with every thing prepared 
for the explosion, Captain Albert, in complete 
armor, made his appearance upon the scene. 

Meantime, the proceedings of Renaud had 
not gone on without, at length, commanding the 
attention, and awakening the fears of so good a 
soldier as Lachane. Having discovered, on his 
rounds, that the guards were doubled, and that 
the sentinel at the salley-port had not only re¬ 
ceived an addition, but that the former, by whom 
Monaletta had been admitted, was changed, he 
hurried back to the dungeon of Guernache, and 
whispering his apprehensions to those within, 
endeavored to hasten the departure of the woman. 
He was arrested, while thus engaged, by the 
commandant himself, who, followed by Renaud 
and two other soldiers, suddenly came upon him 
from the rear of the building, where they had 
concealed themselves. Lachane was taken into 
custody, the alarm given, torches brought, and 
Guernache, with the devoted Monaletta, were 
dragged forth together from the dungeon. She 
was wrapped up closely in a cloak of Lachane, 
but when Renaud waved a torch before her 
eyes, in order to discover who she was, she 
boldly threw aside her disguise, and stood re¬ 
vealed to the eyes of the astonished Albert. 
Upon seeing her, his fury knew no bounds. 
The secret was fully revealed, and, remembering 
the indignant refusal of the woman to dance with 
him, and the preference shown to Guernache, he 
formed a resolution to revenge himself upon her 
with all the venom of a mean and malignant soul. 
He commanded the willing Renaud to have her 
lashed from the fort. At this, the sullen spirit 
of Guernache shuddered and yielded. He ap¬ 
pealed, with trembling accents, to the captain in 
behalf of the woman. 44 She is innocent,—she 
is my wife. Her only error is in loving a wretch 
so worthless as myself.*' 

44 The lash! the lash !** was the only answer 
of the tyrant. 

44 Do not! do not! Lay the accursed lash 
upon my back, but spare her. Remember, Cap¬ 
tain, she is a woman,—a Princess,—closely rela¬ 
ted to King Andusta!" 

Such were the entreaties and suggestions of 
the truly wretched man. But they were met 
only by scorn and denunciation. The servile 
ministers of the tyrant appeared, armed with 
thongs, and, at the word of Albert, the lash de¬ 
scended upon the uncovered neck and shoulders 
of the unhappy woman. With the first stroke, 
she bounded from the earth with a dreadful 
shriek,—a shriek of mingled horror and entreaty. 
To this moment, neither she, nor indeed any of 


the spectators but Guernache himself, and per¬ 
haps Renaud, had imagined that Albert would 
really put in execution a purpose so equally 
cruel and impolitic. But when the blow fell, 
when her feminine,—almost childish shriek rent 
the air, the long-suppressed fury of Guernache 
broke forth. He had struggled long at endu- 
ranee. He had borne much,—much more than 
human nature is at all times fitted to endure. 
But, in the pang of that humilating moment, all 
restraints of prudence were forgotten or tram¬ 
pled under foot. He flung himself loose from 
the men who held him, and, darting upon the 
fellow by whom the blow had been struck, he 
felled him to the earth by a single stroke of his 
Herculean fist. But he could do no more. In 
another instant he was grappled by a dozen arms, 
and borne to the earth, in which position he lay, 
writhing and groaning, while the woman of his 
heart, driven by repeated strokes of the lash, was 
expelled from the enclosure. With that first 
shriek, which spoke rather more for her mental 
horror at such a degradation, than the physical 
pain which it inflicted, she expressed all her suf¬ 
fering. The rest of the torture she bore in 
silence, as if, witnessing the agonies of Guer¬ 
nache, she was resolved to bear any degree of 
torture, rather than increase them by her com¬ 
plaints. Abandoned to herself when expelled 
from the fort, she had barely strength to gain the 
cover of the woods, when she sank down in ex¬ 
haustion,—nature kindly interposing insensibility 
to save her from the feeling of pain which she 
could no longer endure and live. 

Guernache, in the same moment, was brought 
before the judgment seat of Albert. He had 
resisted the execution of the laws,—be had used 
violence against the officer of justice. In these 
acts, all the former offences were assumed as 
established against him, and to the horror of 
many, and the surprize of all, he was doomed to 
expiate his faults, by death, and upon the gal¬ 
lows,—a sentence that was carried into execu¬ 
tion almost instantly. The friends of Guernache, 
and they were numerous, were so much confoun¬ 
ded, so much stunned by the event,—there had 
been no apprehension of it, and no concert among 
them to prevent it,—that they could only look 
on the terrible proceeding in a mute and self- * 
reproachful horror. The poor Monaletta started 
from her stupor, only to behold the form of her 
beloved one waving in the wind from the degra¬ 
ding tree, in front of the fortress. That night 
the body disappeared, and with it, Monaletta 
but long afterwards the Frenchmen shuddered to 
' hear a voice in the wind which resembled that 


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BIRTH-DAY OF A DAUGHTER. 


39 


of their brother soldier, followed by the piercing 
shriek of a woman, which reminded them of that 
dreadful one of the Indian Princess, when first 
smitten by the lash of the ruffian. Thus endeth 
the legend of Guernache, the Drummer, and the 
lorely Monaletta. But thus ends not the story 
of Charles* Fort, and of the petty tyrant who 
commanded there. 

[ To be continued .] 


O r i g i n a 1 • 

BIRTH-DAY OF A DAUGHTER. 

BT MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

Those days have fled away, my love, 

Those simple days, and sweet, 

When slumbering on my breast you lay, 

Or cradled at my feet,— 

Or, with a thousand new-born wiles 
Still made the nursery fair, 

And I ne’er had felt a joy so pure 
As that you planted there. 

’Tis true, that many a dear delight 
My earlier years bad known, 

Parental love’s idolatry, 

And the wild harp’s thrilling tone, 

Yet still they faded as a dream, 

A scarce remember’d speech, 

Before that lesson of the soul 
Which you were sent to teach. 

You were my teacher, though a babe,— 

Of lip, and ear, and eye, 

By kiss, or tear, or murmur’d tone 
Of inwrought melody; 

By hopes and fears, from Heav’n that flow’d 
With such a gushing tide, 

That I bless’d you in my heart’s deep core, 

With all a mother’s pride. 

And sweet one, I remember well, 

As though yestreen it were, 

When the third summer’s opening bloom 
Had made your features fair. 

How every morn, with fairy feet 
Close to my chair you drew, 

To win from pictur’d page,—a thought,— 

The lilly’s drop of dew. 

But all those childish days are o’er, 

And youth is on your brow, 

And musing by my side you walk, 

A meek companion now. 

And what the future hath in store, 

Of life’s eventful task. 

We may not lift the veil to see, 

Or frame the words to ask. 

Yet well we know, the Hand Divine 
That sav’d your infant years, 

Hath power to keep you to the end. 

Through sunshine and through tears; 


So onward—onward—full of hope, 

My daughter, hold your way, 

And take that wisdom for your guide 
That cannot lead astray. 

And when our parting hour shall come, 
Be near,—beside my bed,— 

And speak those words of Christian faith, 
Which I to you‘have said,— 

Sit down upon my lowly grave, 

And nurse a violet there,— 

And that our home may be the same. 
Uplift the earnest prayer. 

For sure the strong and hallow’d love 
Which in our hearts was sown,— 
Should ripely bear that spirit-flower, 
Whose root is by the Throne, 

Which drinketh of the living stream,— 
And of the cloudless ray,— 

And ’neath our dear Redeemer’s smile, 
Can never fade away. 


O r 1 c i o a I • 

THE PILGRIM. 

BT THE REV. J. H. CLINCH. 


I. 

Pilgrim o’er life’s shifting sand. 

To a brighter, better land, 

Loiter not upon the road, 

Linger not upon the way, 

Onward press to thine abode, 

Though all earth should bid thee stay. 


II. 

Wealth may bid before thee shine, 
All the treasures of the mine; 
Pilgrim, count them all but dross;— 
If they turn thy steps astray, 
Golden gain will prove but loss, 
Linger not upon the way. 

hi. 

Pleasure to thy lip may lift 
Every sensual charm and gift; 
Pilgrim, taste not, if to taste 
Be to bid thy heart delay, 

Sinful gain is double waste, 

Linger not upon thy way. 


IT. 

Power may set before thine eyes 
Sceptres, crowns and pageantries; 
Pilgrim, tarry not for them, 

If thy soul their price must pay; 
Seek a heavenly diadem, 

Linger not upon thy way. 


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40 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


O r i f i d a ). 

COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS.—NO. IV. 


fENJAMIN D’lSRAELI, ESQ. 

“ Quid rectum, sit apparet, 

•Quid ezpedist, ob»curuai,” 
b. Tran: 

What is plain to be teen 
Has no curtain between. 

(A rery judicious remark.) 

What is very obscure, 

(A fact equally sure) 

Remains, as it were, in the dark. 

THE ELOPEMENT EXTRAORDINARY. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was morning, in the neighborhood of Bel- 
grave Square—that is to say, fashionable morning, 
very considerably past mid-day, when calls are 
orthodox, and belles and beaux emerge from 
their respective beautifying retreats. Untenanted 
carriages dash along in one general round of 
unsubstantial etiquette, visits are paid by proxy, 
an inch or two of enamelled pasteboard repre¬ 
senting frequently Dukes, Earls, or Marquisses, 
perhaps, fully as well as they represent their 
individual constituency, West End. Morning is a 
period of factitious politeness and unreal industry; 
every body is supposed to be out, but every body 
is known to be at home. 

Sir Henry Templeton, of Templeton, one of ] 
the wealthiest Baronets of England, the deeds ofj 
whose ancestors, are they not registered in that | 
sublimest of works, Debrett’s Peerage ? sat within 
his splendid library, so called from the fact of its 
containing an unlimited number of books. But 
what they themselves contained, was matter of pro- 
foundest mystery, both to him and to his house¬ 
hold. A moiety of the diurnals, the Times, the 
Morning Post, and hebdomadally, the Bull, 
comprised the staple of this “ fine old English 
gentleman’s” literary labors. Be it observed, 
that he was too good a Tory to cast a glance 
over the pages of any paper emanating from the 
opposition ; being one of those who like some one 
else to do their thinking, he confined his opinions 
to those of the leader pf his own party. 

He has just got to the “ hear! hears!” and 
great cheerings ” with which the imaginative 
reporters had introduced an unpretending speech 
of his own, which, until this moment, he has 
been under the disagreeable impression had been 
a lamentable failure. Imagine his surprize when 
he finds his half dozen scarcely intelligible 
phrases, swollen into a goodly column of well 
founded, nicely perioded, polysyllabic English, 


garnished with a Miltonic quotation, and classi¬ 
cally tailed up with a line and a half from Homer. 

“ Well,” said the Baronet, and not without a 
pardonahle glow of vanity, at the contemplation 
of his eloquence, “those reporters certainly have 
long ears. I had no idea in the world that I made, 
or could make, so sensible a speech : but I sup¬ 
pose I did. In point of fact, I must have been 
rather luminous—Latin, too, by Jove! I didn’t 
know that I could recollect so much.” 

In the full bloom of his amor propre^ a footman 
entered and announced “ Lord Ledleigh.” 

“ At home.” 

In the interval between the announcement, 
and the appearance of his lordship, as he is a 
stranger, perhaps I had better give you the benefit 
of a descriptive introduction. 

The Lord Ledleigh, but newly arrived from 
All Souls College, Oxford, is a tolerably fair 
specimen of the reputable portion of England’s 
young nobility. Rich, without ostentation, gene¬ 
rous, without extravagance, prudent, without 
parsimony, and learned, without pedantry, his 
title lent him no lustre that his virtues did not 
pay back with interest. 

Hoping, dear reader, that you will not repent 
of the acquaintanceship, behold him,—he enters, 
—do you not agree with me in saying that he 
looks the very impersonation of that oft dese¬ 
crated phrase, a noble- man ? 

The greeting between Ledleigh and Sir Harry 
is hearty and sincere. The last new singer 
having been discussed, and the last liaison 
deplored, with some slight embarrassment 
Ledleigh broke the primary object of his call. 

“ Sir Harry,” said he, with almost startling 
abruptness—“you have a ward ?” 

“ Egad, Ledleigh, you’re right there,” replied 
Sir Harry, with a good-natured chuckle, “ nor 
would you have erred had you said, two.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” rejoined the Viscount. 
“ But—ah!—I—the fact is, there’s no use in 
mincing the matter, I have taken a most insur¬ 
mountable interest in one.” 

“ Lucy ?” 

“ No. Arabella-p-pardon me, I mean Miss 
Myddleton.” 

“I’m sorry for that, Ledleigh,” replied the 
Baronet, “ very sorry, for I like you.” 

“ Why ? why ?” eagerly interposed the other, 
“ Js she engaged ?” 

“ No, not exactly that: but ” 

“But what? do, for pity’s sake, relieve my 
suspense.” 

“ Upon my soul, Ledleigh, instead of being a 
neophyte in love, one would suppose you rq 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


41 


amorato of some years* experience* Ah! in my 
day, people never married head over heels—but 
you don’t want to hear any thing about that— 
seriously, I should like to give you encourage- 
meat if I could, but you don’t know the wild 
wayward gypsy Arabella. Would you believe 
it, she’s a perfect little Chartist, an absolute 
leveller, sneers at a title, and declares that if she 
ever do many, it will be with some son of toil, 
some honest yeoman* By Jove, I don’t know 
whether it’s that fellow Bulwer, with his cursed 
empty love-in-a-cottage balderdash, who has 
turned her little brain topsey-turvey or not, but 
she absolutely and positively restrains me from 
presenting any body of the suitor order, who is 
tainted with, as she rather Carlyleishly calls it, 
the adventitious possession of hereditary worth¬ 
lessness. I’m very sorry, by George, I am—but 
now there’s Luey, couldn’t you transfer your 
cajrt-laad of affection to her?*’ 

Ledleigh, who fortunately had not heard the 
last morsel of mercantile philosophy, suddenly 
exclaimed, “ she objects to a title ?” 

44 In toto.” 

#4 Full of romance ?” 

“Brim.” 

“Do you object to my trying to influence 
her?” 

“ Not in the least. But, by Jove, I can’t intro¬ 
duce you.” 

44 1 don’t ask you, if I have your consent. I’ll 
manage the best myself.” 

44 That you have, Led, my boy, and my best 
wishes for your success. But what do you mean 
to do ? By Jupiter, I don’t think you’ll ever get 
her to consent.” 

44 Nous verrons.” 

CHAPTER II. 

Lucy and Arabella Myddleton were orphans, 
with good, though not great fortunes—both left 
to the strict guardianship of their uncle, Sir 
Henry, the deed expressly premising, that, in 
case either married without his consent, her 
fortune was to revert to the other. 

There was but one year difference in their 
age. Arabella was the elder, but being a blonde, 
with exceedingly beautiful young looking hair- 
glossy hair—looked many years younger. Lucy 
on the contrary was a beauty of a severer nature, 
a magnificent brunette, with large lustrous eyes 
of the darkest hazle, and hair like raven’s wing. 
Their dispositions were as opposite as were their 
complexions. Lucy was a proud, high souled 
creature, with a step as stately as a pet fawn, and 
a sort of regnant look, that plainly kept familiarity 
aloof; while Arabella was all life, spirit, elasticity, 


and wildness. The very soul of joy beamed from 
her sparkling eyes, and mirth itself dwelt within 
the ringing echo of her laugh. So that, although 
Lucy attracted every eye, by the majesty of her 
appearance, and the swan-like gracefulness® of 
her deportment, yet Arabella won every heart, 
by the yielding sweetness of hSr temper, and the 
gladsome smile that played for ever on her lips. 

Two or three mornings subsequently to that 
on which the conversation mentioned in the last 
chapter took place, as Arabella was leisurely 
strolling through the conservatory, which opened 
with glass doors on to the drawing-room, she 
perceived a young man plainly but elegantly 
dressed, with his collar thrown back a la Byron, 
displaying a throat of womanly whiteness, climb 
up the trellis-work, and jump at once through the 
open window. Her first impulse was to scream; 
but perceiving that the stranger was remarkably 
handsome, and moreover as she was in the act of 
reading Zanoni, her susceptible heart was predis¬ 
posed for any romantic incident. Seeing that his 
attention was directed toward a bust of Byron, 
which ornamented the conservatory, and that she 
was as yet urtperceived, she quietly waited the 
denoument. 


Ledleigh, for ’twas he, approached the bust 
with reverence. Giving his hair the conventional 
thrust back from his forehead, and flinging him¬ 
self into a theatrical attitude, he exclaimed, elocu¬ 
tionally— 

44 Oh, thou undying one, upon whose ample 
brow high intellect doth sit enthroned, from 
whose expressive eye the lightning of the soul, 
the fire of genius, seems incessantly to flash, 
upon whose every lineament the mighty hand 
of nature hath irrevocably stamped the evidence 
of an immortal mind—spirit of poesy, my soul 
doth kneel to thee !” 

What an exceedingly nice young man! 
thought Arabella, as he with increasing fervor 
proceeded— 

“And thou wert of that tinsel throng, men 
bow, and cringe, and fawn on and call lard . I 
cannot call thee so thy genius lifts thee higher ; 
than the highest pinnacle of rank could e'er 
attain. I’ll call thee what thou wert, a man, 
spurning the gauds of title—an inspired, an inde¬ 
pendent, but ah, most persecuted man!” 

These sentiments so entirely coincided with 
those of the romantic Arabella, that forgetting 
the time, place, ignorance of the individual she 
addressed, every thing except the glow of enthu¬ 
siasm which his words had kindled, she flung 
Zanoni aside, and rushed forward, exclaiming— 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


14 He was ! he was. You’re right, sir, he was 
a persecuted man.” 

Ledleigh started with well simulated astonish¬ 
ment, exclaiming in a faltering tone, “Miss Myd- 
dleton, here,—I—pray you pardon. I—” 

“ Don’t apologize, I pray,” said the rapt girl, 
“ go on, sir, go on, vindicate the character of that 
sweet poet—but- ■ ” Suddenly recollecting 
herself, and blushing deeply, she continued, “I 
beg your pardon. You are a stranger—at least, 
I do not remember having had the pleasure of an 
introduction.” 

“Alas, never,” exclaimed Ledleigh, sighing 
profoundly. 

“ But that I have seen you before, I am 
certain.” 

“ Many a time, and in many a guise hast thou 
observed me—nor didst thou know, that all those 
varied forms contained but one devoted heart.” 

“ Indeed ! what mean you ?” 

“As at the balmy twilight hour, the other 
eve you walked, a mendicant sailor you did en¬ 
counter, with leg of wood, a pitiable patch across 
his face—’twas I. I asked for charity. You 
gave me six-pence, but the com was naught 
compared with the sweet sigh of sympathy 
which hallowed the donation. In menial garb 
for months I’ve waited on thee, paid by a look, 
enchanted by a smile. At Beulah-Spa, a gipsy 
I did personate, and as I gazed upon thy beau¬ 
teous palm, I promised thee what from my soul 
I wished, and still do wish, a long, a joyous, 
cloudless, sunny life.” 

14 1 don’t recollect the sailor, or the gipsy,” 
said Arabella, feeling, as he spoke, in a strange 
incomprehensible flutter, for his voice was sweet, 
and his manner peculiarly impressive. 

“ Sweet lady,” he continued, “ will you deign 
to pardon the presumption of one, who, although 
a simple unit from the presumptuous herd, yet 
dares to utter his aspiring thoughts within thy 
hearing ?” 

“ How like Claude Melnotte he speaks,” 
thought Arabella, rather flatteringly, it must be 
confessed, still it was sufficient to show that 
Bulwer was a piece of golden colored glass, 
within the windows of her soul. “Would it be 
too much, sir,” said she, in that matter-of-fact 
way, which romancists frequently fall into, as the 
exception, “would it be too much to inquire 
who, and what you are ?” 

The question was almost too abrupt for Led¬ 
leigh, too earthly, now that his imagination was 
abroad upon the wings of fancy. However, with 
a still more extensive respiration, he replied: 

44 Madam, to be frank with you, I’m a gentle¬ 


man; but alas, the spirit and plaything of hard 
destiny, which, had it emptied all its store of 
woes upon my head, makes ample recompense by 
now permitting me to speak with thee. Oh! let 
the soft music of thy voice, steeping my soul in 
melody, bid me not despair. ’Tis strength of 
love alone that lends me boldness, for I feel, I 
know, that I am unworthy of you. The posses¬ 
sion of a poor cottage-home, where love might 
make its rosy dwelling, but where lordly riches 
enter not.” 

Arabella felt strangely excited. Here was the 
realization of her every wish, untitled, wealthy 
only in abundant love. She hesitated, and in 
accordance with the veracious proverb, in that 
moment’s unguardedness, Cupid, the vigilant, 
abstracted her heart for ever. 

Ledleigh was crafty enough not to prolong 
this introductory visit, which was meant but to 
show Arabella that she had a devoted adorer. 
Affecting to hear an approaching footstep, he 
cried in an agitated voice— 

44 Some one comes! Oh, do not send me away 
without a ray of hope to light existence.” 

“ What can I say ?” replied the really agitated 
Arabella. 

44 What, you do not bate me 7” 

44 No.” 

44 You’ll let me see you again?” 

44 No.” 

“ I must, I must. Oh, say but yes. Remem¬ 
ber the happiness or misery of a life depends 
upon your answer.” 

Arabella was most imprudently silent; for 
Ledleigh construing it advantageously, ex¬ 
claimed— 

“Oh, thanks, ten thousand thanks for that force¬ 
less eloquence. And now, for a time, farewell, my 
first, my only, everlasting love, farewell.” And 
hastily opening the window, he withdrew, the same 
uncomfortable way that he had entered, leaving 
Arabella in a fearful maze, but whether of joy or 
apprehension, she hardly knew, herself. But the 
chord of sympathy had been touched, and still 
vibrated to her very heart—for she acknow¬ 
ledged that of all men living, he was the only one 
for whom she had ever felt the slightest approach 
to a sentiment of love. 

Now would she laugh at the absurdity of being 
so taken with a mere stranger, and suddenly find 
her recollection dwelling on his features—thus 
struggling like a bird in the net of the fowler. 
Slow and silently she returned to the drawing¬ 
room, hearing, as she went, the loud hearty 
laugh of her uncle, in the library, little thinking 
that she had furnished him with matter for such 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


43 


uprorious mirth; for Ledleigh was at that 
moment relating to Sir Harry the success of his 
first interview, and the tears rolled down the old 
gentleman’s crimsoned cheek, as he listened. 

Next day, Arabella was very busy at her 
toilette, and Lucy curious to know what could 
so occupy her attention, crept stealthily over and 
peeping over her sister’s shoulder, beheld the 
half-finished likeness of a remarkably nice 
looking young man, with beautiful dark hair, 
and brilliant eyes. Pulling down the corners of 
her mouth with a good-gracious-me sort of ex¬ 
pression, she quietly returned to her chair, and 
said nothing—sensible girl! 

chapter in. 

For several weeks had those secret interviews, 
—so secret that they were known to the whole 
household,—transpired, and Arabella, who tolera¬ 
ted them at first, from the mere caprice of a 
romantic disposition, soon began to look forward 
to their coming with what one might call a heart- 
hunger. The truth was, she loved Ledleigh, 
the,—as she imagined,—poor, unfriended youth, 
with an affection the most ardent and overwhelm¬ 
ing, and now, for the first time, a shade of gloom 
dimmed the radiance of her brow, as the thought 
incessantly arose before her, that Sir Henry 
could never, by any possibility, be induced to 
countenance a match so unworthy. Many a 
time did she determine to throw herself on her 
knees before her uncle, and try the unequal con¬ 
test of woman’s tears against man’s will, but as 
often did her heart fail her, at the full certainty 
of refusal, and the consequent dismissal of Led¬ 
leigh. 

Poor Arabella’s perturbation of mind, and 
uneasy demeanor, as one might suppose, were 
matter of pleasant observation to Sir Henry and 
Lucy, who, in full possession of every item that 
occurred, could construe every look and action 
of her who thought herself the very focus of 
mystery, the very incarnation of romance. 

It was now near the time on which her lover 
usually made his stolen visits, and Arabella, 
making some trivial excuse, rose, and with a 
beating heart, sought the conservatory, sir Henry 
and Lucy stealing quietly after, and ensconcing 
themselves within a seeable, though not a heara¬ 
ble distance,—reasonable encroachment upon the 
precincts of Eros, King of Hearts. 

Not long had Arabella to wait. With a myste¬ 
rious glance around, and with a noiseless, stealthy 
step, Ledleigh approached. 

44 Dearest love,” whispered he, most tenderly, 
44 again am I in the presence of my soul’s ray, 


again the cheering influence of those beaming 
eyes imbue my seared and withered heart,” for 
as he was making love medicinally, he was no 
homceopathist. 44 Oh!” he continued, with a 
glance of unspeakable affection, “how have I 
languished for this blissful hour; a blank, a void, 
a dull, cheerless nullity has been the intervening 
time since last we (iarted, and were it not that 
thy bright image ever dwelling here within my 
heart of heart shot through my breast a ray of 
joy, and kindled hope within my soul, despair 
and death had, ere now, claimed their victim.” 

Now Ledleigh thought, at first, that by enact¬ 
ing these scenes of high wrought and over¬ 
charged romance, he would disabuse the mind 
of Arabella, and thereby induce her to listen to 
him in his real character, but he was much mis¬ 
taken, and but little knew the page he had to 
study; for as the purest, deepest love had taken 
possession of her enthusiastic young heart, she 
looked on all he said or did, as the perfection of 
their kind. Oh, bounteous dispensation of the 
heart’s disposer, that so inclines and tempers 
each to each, that to its own choice the enrapt¬ 
ured soul can find no parallel! What, a short 
time since, even in the midst of her romance, 
she would have deemed absurd, now in the very 
soberness of her reflective moments, her partial 
heart found full excuse for, and why ? because 
his was the expression of a true aud sacred love, 
although in an exaggerated mask. 

“ Tha tun will warm, tho* it do not shma. n 

This interview lengthened out to an unprece¬ 
dent extent,—outstaying even curiosity, for Sir 
Henry and Lucy were tired off in about half an 
hour,—brought a definite issue, which may be 
inferred from the following conversation which 
took place in the library a short time after. 

44 Well, Led, my boy,—my gay deceiver, how 
do you get on, eh ?” 

44 Famously !” 

44 Does she surrender at discretion ?” 

44 No. Most indiscreetly.” 

44 How so ?” 

44 Be in the drawing-room, but not in view, at 
twelve o’clock to-night, and you shall see.” 

44 Why, zounds ! You don’t mean that you’re 
going to—” 

44 Gretna Green, by the Lord Harry.” 

44 Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the Baronet. 44 Give 
me your hand ; by Jove, that’s capital. An 
Elopement Extraordinary, a young lady 
running ofT with a Viscount and ten thousand a 
year, and thinking that she’s throwing away a 
good fifteen thousand, to unite her fate with a 
cottage-keeper’s grow-your-own-vegetables sort 


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44 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


of a fellow,—ha! ha! ha ! try that port! it’s too 
good, by George it is.” Whether the Baronet 
meant the wine or the joke, was doubtful, and 
immaterial. 

The evening wore on, and all around wore an 
aspect of abstraction. A sort of mysterious atmo¬ 
sphere seemed to envelope the place; never 
were the girls so silent, and never did the Baro¬ 
net go off into so many unaccountable explo¬ 
sions of laughter, without condescending to ex¬ 
plain the various witticisms. At last Arabella 
rose, and, as was her custom, before retiring for 
the night, embraced her sister and her uncle. 
There were tears in her eyes as she gave Lucy 
a long, long kiss, but when she approached Sir 
Harry, something again appeared to tickle him 
amazingly, for it was full five minutes before he 
subsided sufficiently to receive his ward’s affec¬ 
tionate salute. 

“ Good night, you little,—pooh! hoo ! ha! 
ha I” and off he went again. 

44 What can be the matter, uncle ?” gravely 
inquired Lucy, with the slightest possible smile 
resting on her proud lip. 

44 Nothing, child, nothing; a good joke I heard 
to-day, that’s all; a capital joke ; but come, *tis 
foolish to laugh so much,” and with an altered, 
and now serious countenance, the good, kind- 
hearted old gentleman kissed Arabella affection¬ 
ately saying, 44 God for ever bless you, my pet; 
good night,” and she retired. 

Some two hours after, the lights being all out 
in the drawing-room, save one small lamp, and 
Lucy and Sir Harry, with a cambric handker¬ 
chief stuffed into his mouth, snugly concealed 
behind the ample‘window-curtains, a soft step 
was heard gently approaching, and the little flut¬ 
tering run-away crept into the apartment. It 
was as much as the Baronet and Lucy could do 
to restrain their emotion, as they saw the seem¬ 
ing giddy child fling herself upon her knees, and 
burying her face in her hands, burst into an 
agony of tears. 

A few moments after a signal was heard. Hasti¬ 
ly wiping away the pearly drops from her eyes, 
Arabella started to her feet, threw a note on the 
table, and snatching up from thence two minia¬ 
tures, one of her uncle and the other of her 
sister, kissed them fervently, and then placed 
them in her bosom. 

Ledleigh joined her, and it was with much 
and earnest persuasion that he at length induced 
her to accompany him. They went out, and as 
they crossed the garden, Arabella thought she 
heard either a smothered laugh or a sob, or both. 

Crack went the postilion’s whip, and off they 


dashed, northward, at the rate of twelve miles art 
hour. They need not have been in so great tf 
hurrynobody followed them. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Gentle reader, oblige me by filling up the 
hiatus as your imagination may point out, and 1 
skip with me three weeks. Having done so, now 
let me show you the interior of a small, but for 
the life of me, I cannot say comfortable cottage 
in Devonshire, the humble residence of Mr. and 
Mrs. Ledleigh. He is sitting on a chair, dressed 
in a game-keeper’s sort of fustion jacket, cord | 
continuations, and high leather gaiters. A gun 
rests on his arm, and a magnificent pair of i 
thorough-blooded pointers recline at his feet, 
with mouths all agape, and tongues quivering, in 
proof of recent exercise. Seated opposite to him 
is his sister, the Lady Emma Ledleigh, her noble f 
contour but ill concealed beneath a maid-of-all- 
work’s coarse habiliments. You may hear Ara* 
bella in the adjacent smalf garden, singing like a 
very bird, and as happy as one. Now for our 
story. 

44 Well, brother mine,” rather pettishly ex* 
claims the Lady Emma, 44 this notable scheme 
of yours don’t promise much success. Just 
listen to that extraordinary wife of yours, warbling 
away as though this were a palace, and not an 
odious, unendurable hovel.” 

44 Patience, Emma love,” replies Ledleigh*, 

‘•all will yet be as I wish. I have noticed, 
already, moments of discomfort; they’ll soon 
swell to hours , hours to days, and then for my 
lesson; depend upon it, we shall soon contrive 
to make her feel uncomfortable.” | 

44 Do, do, for gracious sake,” replied the pet- I 
ted child of fortune, who undertook this matter 
as much from the excitement of novelty, as for | 
brotherly love; and now the former had passed 
away, the latter scarcely sufficed to keep her to 
her promise. 

44 1 have commenced already,” replied Led- 
lergh, 44 by placing a brick across the chimney, 
and see the result,” as a puff of smoke clouded 
into the room. 

r4 Oh! delicious,” exclaimed his sister, clap¬ 
ping her hands, 44 she’ll never be able to endure 
that; hark ! she’s coming ; I must return to my 
place , hr the hope of soon changing itand the 
Lady Emma, or rather, as she is now called, by 
the familiar term Mary , vacated the parlor for the 
poor kitchen, heartily sick and tired of her situ* 
atian. 

In bounded Arabella, radiant with happiness, 
and all aglow with health. 44 My own, own hus- , 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


45 




band,” she exclaimed, “ never did I in my 
wildest dreams, anticipate the fulness of joy that 
now inhabits my soul.** 

44 My beautiful, my wife !” ardently responded 
Ledleigh, 44 happiness is but a fleeting shadow, 
and its opposite may obtrude itself even amongst 
these rosy bowers.” 

44 How ! you look sorrowful, my Ledleigh; 
dear husband, has any thing happened to vex 7 
any light word of mine 7 Oh, I would not bring 
the slightest shadow of a cloud upon thy brow 
for million of worlds,” tenderly exclaimed Ara¬ 
bella, the mere alteration in his tone chasing her 
smile away upon the instant. 

Ledleigh, with difficulty obliging himself to go 
through with his design, said— 

44 The fact is, dearest, I am rather close pressed 
in the pecuniary way, just at present. I owe a 
trifle; my creditor has been here, and—” 

44 Pay him ! pay him, certainly. I will, my¬ 
self,” energetically cried Arabella, but suddenly 
checked by the thought, for the first time in her 
life, of being without the means. 

44 But no matter,” rejoined Ledleigh, 44 that I 
can put off, but present wants must be supplied ; 
dinner is imperative. I must away and try and 
shoot some game, if his lordship’s well-stocked 
grounds be not too closely watched.” 

44 Are you obliged to leave me, Ledleigh ?” 
said she with a small pout. 

“Else we have no dinner,” he replied. Giving 
her an affectionate embrace, he left her, to digest 
this her first practical lesson, in the comforts of 
44 Love in a Cottage,” and, to say the truth, poor 
Arabella felt, at this moment, very far from happy; 
the leaves began to drop from the roses, and the 
concealed thorns to make themselves seen and 
felt. 

It was in this mood, that on sitting down to 
reflect, a puff of smoke descended the chimney, 
covering her in a black cloud of soot. Putting 
her hands over her eyes, she screamed for Mary, 
several times, stamping her pretty little foot in 
positive anger. At last, with the characteristic 
listlessness of her r6le , the Lady Emma crawled 
into the room. Wiping her hands in her apron, 
she drawled out, 44 Did you call, mum T” 

44 Call, mum,” replied Arabella, with rather a 
dangerous expression of eye,— 44 1 did call enough 
to waken the dead.” 

44 If they weren’t too far gone, I s’pose, mum,” 
provokingly rejoined the maid-servant. 

“ No impertinence!” 

“ What do you please to want,, mum V* 

6 


44 Why, don’t you see 7” said Arabella, pet¬ 
tishly. 

44 See what, mum 7” 

44 The chimney.” 

44 Yes, mum.” 

44 It smokes.” 

44 Law, do it mum ? well so it do , a little, I 
declare,” said she, as another volume of sooty 
vapor swept into the place, 44 but don’t take on, 
mum,” she continued, “ it always do smoke when 
the wind is in one direction, and it generally 
almost alway is, so that you’ll soon get used to 
it.” 

44 Good Heaven,” said Arabella, 44 1 cannot 
endure this; I must go out into the air. Come 
here, put my collar straight.” 

44 Can’t, mum.” 

44 Why not 7” 

44 Cos my hands is all black-leaded,” said the 
lady-servant, going out of the room with an inter¬ 
nal consciousness that matters were progressing 
to a climax. 

And now poor Arabella began seriously to de¬ 
plore the dark prospect which rose before her 
imagination. Her little feet went pat pat upon 
the uncarpeted floor, and if she had been asked, 
at that moment, how she felt, she would have re¬ 
plied, decidedly miserable; but her true woman’s 
heart soon conquered every discomfort, and she 
said within herself, ’tis my Ledleigh’s fate; if 
he can endure it, so shall I without a murmur: 
so that when he returned, instead of finding her 
as he supposed he should, in sorrow, her beau¬ 
tiful face greeted him with smiles more gladsome 
than ever. 

It was seme days before Ledleigh could make 
up his mind to bring matters to a crisis. He 
was becoming himself rather fatigued with his 
rustic Fife, and so with a view to investigate the 
state of Arabella’s feelings, he one morning 
seated her beside him, saying, 

44 Now, dearest love, that you have had some 
experience in this our homely country-life, tell 
me frankly, how do you like it 7 Does it come 
up to or exceed your expectation 7” 

44 Ledleigh,” she replied in a tone of earnest 
seriousness, 44 1 married you, aid not your 
station, swearing at the holy altar to be yours, 
in health or io sickness, in joy or in sorrow. If 
I can shed one ray of happiness upon your onward 
path, though ne’er so humble, ’twill be my glory 
and my pride.” 

“But now,” continued he, “were I to find 
myself within a somewhat better sphere, were 
fortune to bless me with increase of means—say. 


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46 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


now that by some strange freak a little were to 
fall to me.” 

“Ledleigh, husband,'’ replied Arabella, with 
enthusiasm, “ I would not lore you less were you 
a beggar; I could not love you more were you a 
king.” 

“I'd like the former's chance, before the 
latter," smilingly rejoined Ledleigh. “ Heaven 
reward your sweet disinterested love. I have a 
somewhat larger and more commodious house; 
it has just been put in order at some little cost, 
we shall remove there, dearest, after dinner. 'Tis 
but a short walk from this. Now for our meal, 
Mary!” 

In tain they called, Mary had incontinently 
vanished, and with her all hope of dinner. 

“ Never mind," said Ledleigh, 44 we may find 
something at the other house." 

“I hope so," gaily responded Arabella, 44 for I 
am furiously hungry." 

Delighted at the anticipation of being any¬ 
where out of the atmosphere of smokey chim¬ 
neys, Arabella put on her little plain straw bonnet, 
and taking the arm of her husband, sallied forth. 
In a few minutes, they came within view of a 
splendid castellated mansion, situated in the 
centre of a spacious park, with herds of deer 
browsing here and there, upon the velvety 
grass. 

44 Goodness me, what a lovely place," said 
Arabella, as they entered, 44 may we go through 
here ?" 

“As often as you please, dearest," replied 
Ledleigh, 44 the owner, I think I may venture to 
say, will not interdict you." 

14 Indeed, then I shall take many a walk 
beneath the shade of those find old elms," 
replied Arabella* 

44 1 hope so, most sincerely," replied Ledleigh, 

44 and I too: and then we might fancy this 
delightful place our own, and stroll about, as 
though we had a right." 

They now neared the entrance to the castle, 
and Arabella perceiving that the marble steps 
were lined with servants in rich liveries, shrunk 
timidly back. But what was her surprize to 
find her husband walk directly toward the 
group! 

44 You are not going in there, Ledleigh," she 
cried, in a voice of alarm, a sensation akin to 
fear, creeping over her. 

“ Yes, dearest," he replied, 44 1 know some 
persons connected with the household. Indeed, 

I believe you have met them occasionally; so 
come, fear nothing." 1 


In a sort of wondering maze, Arabella entered, 
and leaning heavily on the arm of her husband, 
traversed the statued hall, and noble picture 
gallery. As she neared an inner apartment, a 
sound proceeded from it, that made her thrill 
with vague indefinite anticipation. It was a 
peculiar laugh. She could have sworn that she 
knew it, and she was right. A pair of large 
folding doors (lew indolently open, and in a rich, 
but elegantly appointed room, mellowed by the 
soft light of a gloriously tinted window, Arabella 
almost fainted with overpowering excitement, as 
she beheld rushing forward to embrace her, Sir 
Henry Templeton and her sister Lucy. Scarcely 
had she recovered the shock of pleasurable sur¬ 
prize, when the grandame Mary, splendidly 
attired, fiung her arms round her neck, ex¬ 
claiming, 

44 Dear sister, let me be the first to welcome 
the Viscountess Ledleigh to the domain of her 
husband. His, by right of heritage, her's by 
right of conquest." 

Arabella gave one glance of unutterable love 
at her lord, through eyes made brighter by tears. 

That came not from a soul-cloud charged with grief, 

Rut were from very over-brightness shed. 

Like heat-drop* falling from a sun-lit eky. 


Original. 

TO MY MOTHER. 

Mother ! far climes and wilderness wide 
Sever me from my birth-place—yet my heart, 
O’ergrown like an uncultivated waste 
With rank and thrifty weeds that mock the eye 
Of weary traveller with hope of verdure, holds 
In the deep bosom of its secret shades 
A fountain full of tenderness for this. 

Friends have been riven from out my heart of hearts 
Love has grown cold upon the fire it lighted— 

Hopes have been blighted by the winds that bore 
Their blossoming fragrance unto Heaven; and storms, 
Fiercer than thunder-gusts, have swept 
The garden of my heart into the gulf 
Of maddened desolation—yet for thee,— 

In the still holiness of twilight's hour, 

When comes each spirit-star to woo the night, 

And the queen Moon goes up unto her throne,— 

I steal to some lone spot; and while the wind 
Floats o’er my fevered temples, deem 
’Tis thy fond breathing—and my soul goes back 
To merry days and happy nights, when thou 
Thy watch wert keeping o'er my sinless years. 

Mother, I love thee still! The grosser earth, 

That chokes up other springs which once o'crflowed, 
Hath concentrated in that love for thee 
The perfect sum of my affection's wealth 
Into one intense passion, which comes out, 

When slumber the tired sentinels of my thought, 

And keeps its vigils in the holy silence. r. 


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THE BURNING.-*TI8 THEN I’LL THINK OP THEE. 47 


Original. 

THE BURNING. 

BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 

A lady in F , New-Hampahire, who hat* been made to drink 
deeply of affliction, was lately summoned, on a fair Sabbath 
morning, to witness the burning of her dwelling ; and in that 
calamity to behold all that was left of her little possessions, 
awept away. The neighbors, unable to prevent the complete 
loss of her property, stood and gazed ana sighed, unmindful of 
the bell which called to afternoon worship. She, as usual, at- 
tended church; and by her calm demeanor and absorbed spirit, 
ahowed that the sanctuary is the pluce where sorrow may find 
its healing, aa well as where joy may express its gratitude. 

This is my story; need my verse 
On such instructed grief to dwell T 

Or to the heart, in lines, rehearse 
What every heart might love to tell ? 

In my mind's eye, I see her stand,— 

Her soul subdued, yet all unbroke— 

Receiving from her Father's hand, 

Henelf a child, a Father’s stroke. 

By stern affliction, years before, 

Led gently down the humble vale; 

Where pilgrims drink of heaven the more 
That earthly streams of comfort fail. 

Her mansion, wrapt in cruel flame, 

Which leaps and darts in fiery glee ; 

A fierce devourer none can tame, 

The mother's eye is bid to see. 

The mother—on whose slender arms, 

Pale, drooping flowers, her daughters lean; 

To shield from life’s unnumbered harms, 

To guide through wastes, as yet unseen— 

Beholds depart what trial spared; 

Sees hopes, that lingered, turn to dust; 

And yet, for wo by woes prepared, 

The storm but drives her to her Trust 

The neighbors strive, yet all in vain, 

Their feeble strife with giant Fire; 

The slave set free, will despot reign, 

And show how grovelings may aspire. 

They gaxe, nor heed the bell that calls, 

Entreating, to the house of prayer 

She hears, and on her spirit falls, 

Like balm, tho invitation there. 

In my mind’s eye, I see her kneel 

Where hope is strengthened from above ; 

Those trickling tears her joy reveal, 

For that her trial comes in love. 

For she is taught in Sorrow’s school, 

On heaven, alone, her feet to stay; 

And takes, for her’s, the Psalmist’s rule— 

In grief or gladness still to pray. 


Original. 

’TIS THEN I’LL THINK OF THEE. 

BY WILLIAM RUSSELL, JR. 


I. 

I’ll think of thee, when o’er the spirit steals, 

Hopes, such as only live in youthful hearts; 

When melancholy to the soul reveals, 

That Pleasure smiles a moment, and departs; 

When broken seems the spell which Fancy wove, 

Ere clouds had gather’d o'er life’s changing sky, 

And I had leam’d how wild the passions rove; 

That they but live a moment , droop, and die; 

When sorrow’s streamlets from the heart gush free. 

In saddest hours 'tit then, I'll think of thee! 

ti. 

I’ll think of thee, while in the festal hall; 

When all is blissful, light, and joyous there; 

Each gentle smile—each look will but recall, 

Fond thought of one more gently, bright, and fair: 

When snowy fingers wake the slumb’ring string, 

And strains, as sweet, as seraph-lips e’er breath’d, 

Make the sad spirit mount on blithesome wing, 

And break the shrine with which 'till then *twa§ sheath’d: 

In hours like these, when hearts are light with glee, 

And glance meets glance, 'tit then I'll think of thee ! 

til. 

I’ll think of thee, when Autumn’s chilling blast. 

Moans hoarsely, 'round the craggy mountain’s top; 

When frost-king on each leaf his blight hath cast, 

And ripen’d fruit from off the branches drop; 

When music in the leafless wood is hush’d. 

Save the low murmur of the silv'ry rill; 

When flow’rs are dead, which once in beauty blush’d, 
Upon tho grassy carpet of the hill; 

When summer's gone, and frost is on die sea. 

And verdure’s dead, ’tit then I'll think of thee, 

Bvffalo, Oct., 1843. 


Original. 

TO A PLANT AT SEA. 


BT MRS. LTDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

Hold up thy head, thou timid voyager! 

Vex’d by the storm-clouds, as they darkly roll. 
And by the fiercely tossing waves that stir 

Tby slender root, and try thy trembling soul;— 
Sod change from thy sweet garden,—where the dew 
Each morning glisten'd in thy grateful eye,— 

And where no rougher guest thy bosom knew 
Then quiet bee,—or gadding butterfly j— 

It grieves me sore, to see thy leaflets fade, 

Wearing the plague-spot of the sickening spray, 
And know what trouble I for thee have made, 

Yet still bear on*—meek partner of my way,— 
For in thy life, I keep the flowery chain 
Of home and its delights, here, on the lonely main. 


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46 


THE DESERT IBLE. 


THE DESERT ISLE. 

WORDS WRITTEN BY BY T. HAYNES BAYLEY—MUSIC COMPOSED BY C. E. HORN. 





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THE DESERT ISLE. 


4^ 



2 

When darkness veils the ocean 
I kindle yonder pile; 

But no eye marks my beacon— 
No stranger seeks the isle: 
Alas! my weak hand trembles 
When thus I try once more 
That chance of preservation 
Which fail’d so oft before. 


3 

Yet once again it blares, 

Reflected in the deep— 

Ah! would those flames could waken 
My lov’d ones where they sleep: 
But ’twill not guide them hither, 

My beacon burns in vein— 

And I shall never listen 
To words of love again. 


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50 


LATTICE-PKEPING. —- CALUMNY. 


Original. 

CALUMNY. 

BT THE LITE SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

Ah, what avails the shield of truth, 

The charm of virtue, beauty, youth, 

Against that fiend deform’d, uncouth, 

Whose wounds no lenient balm can close 7 
Assailed by Slander's venom’d tooth, 

The sensato mind must droop, forsooth, 

And wither like a canker'd rose. 

Yes, they who ever felt the pang 
Of calumny's inveterate fang, 

Must own that minstrel never sang 
Of all the wars from guilt that sprang, 

Of deeper,^dreader, deadlier foes. 

Oh, thou, who hast been thus betray’d 
By secret foes, in ambush laid, 

To plot and stab beneath the shade; 

Whose viewless sliafts have mock'd the aid 
Of Virtue's buckler, to evade 

The cruel, pointed, venom’d barb,— 
Know, hapless wretch ! whoe’er thou be, 
There is between thyself and me, 

A sighing chord of sympathy; 

For I have also felt, like thee, 

The cureless wounds of Calumny, 

Who kiss'd and stabb’d,—for he,—for he 
Had stolen honest Friendship’s garb. 

But what, alas, avails complaint? 

Be man more holy than a saint, 

Be lovely woman “ chaste a9 snow. 

And pure as ice,” they still mn9t know 
The keenest pang of human wo, 

The rankling wound of Calumny. 

But hear a Saviour’s accents mild, 

44 The persecuted and reviled 
Are blessed,”—saith the Lord. 

Then still, in conscious virtue clad, 

44 Rejoice and be exceeding glad,” 

41 For great is your reward.” 


Original. 

SONG. — THE INCONSTANT. 

BT MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 

44 Not false, but fickle.” 

Drink to thy Ladye;—ay, fill high the bowl 
To the Cynthia that rules o’er the tides of thy soul, 

To her whose light hand wanders over thy heart. 
Bringing out the rich music its chords can impart; 

Ay, drink to her now, lest a new love awake 

Ere thy lips meet the wine-bead that swells but to break. 

Drink to thy Ladye; but breathe not her name,— 

That draught quenched already a fast-waning flame; 
When next at the banquet thou pourest the red wine, 
Thy love will be pilgrim at some newer shrine; 

Another will weave thee a fresher rose-chain. 

To be worn a brief moment, then flung off again. 


Original. 

LATTICE-PEEPING. 

BT LIEUT. O. W. PATTEN, U. S. A. 

Butterfly ! butterfly! minion of light ! 

Floating like gossamer fast from my sight! 

I Tell me, come, whisper, e’er further you rove, 

Have you met as ye journey’d the smile of my love f— 

44 Wherever thy mistress, she stood not, I ween, 

| This mom as I past, at the lattice of green: 

For I peep'd at each crevice, but naught could I see. 
Save the fair mignonette and the sweet scented pea.’ r 
Humming-bird! humming-bird! gentlest of wing! 
Sipping the sweets from each delicate thing! 

Say, ere you sail to your nest in the grove, 

Have ye heard at the lattice the voice of my love 7 — 

14 That I've peep’d at each casement the morning breeze 
knows, 

For it bow'd to my kisses the tulip and rose; 

But naught have I heard at the porch of thy fair, 

Save the buzz of the bee as he whizz’d through the air.’ r 
Butterfly, butterfly ! fading in blue! 

Humming-bird, humming-bird, sipping the dew ! 

Bring ye no word of my mistress to-day 7 
—Swift o’er the hill to yon cottage, away! 

There, where the per my and prince's red plume 
'Neath her soft culture have blush’d into bloom. 

Hover around her and flutter above, 

'Till you catch through the lattice a peep of my love. 

Fort Ontario, N. Y., Oct. 

Original. 

AGE. 


BY MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 

A shattered wreck on a stranger-strand— 

A waif of the laughing wave, 

An exile’s form in a dreary land 
In search of a quiet grave; 

The cheerless night of the Arctic clime 
Where the Ice-King holds his reign, 

The gloom-string sounds which the old oaks chime 
As their leaves bestrew the plain, 

The painful halt that memory makes 
As the past is hid in gloom, 

The heart-cloud that so darkly breaks 
As looms to light the tomb; 

These, to the gazer—form the page 
Telling the woes and wrecks of Age ! 


Contentment produces, in some measure, 
all those effects which the alchymist usually 
ascribes to what he calls the philosopher's stone; 
and if it does not bring riches, it does the same 
thing by banishing the desire of them. If it 
cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a 
roan’s mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy 
under them.— Addison . 


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editors’ table. 




EDITORS’ TABLE. I 

The New Volume. —A brilliant and prosperous past reflects j 
itself upon the future, and makes it bright and glorious. Thus j 
is our pathway chequered but with sunshiue and with flowers. 
Beyond our hopes, our most anxious wishes, have we been rue- [ 
cessful—beyond, we sometimes fear, even our deserts ; and we " 
enter to-day upou our twentieth volume, with a world of frui- ! 
don already ours, and a fairer one yet to obtain. The secret of 
our unparalleled success is simple. We have never made lofty 
pretensions—we have ever fulfilled more than we promised. 
While willing to be regarded merely as the butterfly that skims 
along the flower-trees,—now kissing a drop of dew-nectar froni 
the jasmine, and now drowning his wings in the oppressive 
odors of the wanton rose—and all for nothing and to no provi¬ 
dent purpose beyond the mere caprice of the sunny hour,—we 
have not perhaps always returned without our bag of sweets, 
carefully culled and prepared for future use. If we are gay 
and brilliant, we are not entirely without more common but 
more useful qualities. 

But we hate egotism ; and we leave our fair friends to dis¬ 
cover and discuss our merits and imperfections for themselves 
—ever too proud and huppy to bn the subject of comment by 
ouch lips, let cither praise or censure be their theme. We have 
much that might well be said here, in regard to our future 1 
course aud prospects; but we think it may still better be left 
unsaid. As every successive bow made in the dreamy sky by 'j 
the new-born, modest moon, seems sweeter, fairer and more 
delicious than her silver sister, so shall each month scatter 
new light and fragrance over our pages, and upon thee, most 
beloved reuder aud friend !—so, our blessing, aud farewell! 

Corv-RicHT Club. —A club has been formed in this city, i 
embracing some of our most eminent writers, for the avowed 
object of influencing Congress to take some action towards the 
establishment of an international law of copy-right,—partly as 
si matter of justice to foreign authors, but more especially for 
the benefit of American writers. We are free to confess that 
we think the interests of American literature imperatively de¬ 
mand something of this kind ; as it is folly to suppose that an 
American publisher will pay for the manuscripts of obscure 
American writers, when he can obtain the works of British 
authors of established reputation,—such as Bulwer, Dickens, 
Eugene Sue, Alison, etc., etc.—for nothing , and that, tao, in a 
shape far more convenient for printing than even the best pre¬ 
pared manuscript This state of things will inevitably keep 
American literature for ever in a depressed condition. 

But in all that we have seen advanced upon this subject, one 
very important feature seems to have been entirely overlooked. 
It is a well known fact that the publishers of the monthly 
magazines in this country, are the only persons who oflfor any 
reward to our writers and literary men ; and yet the want of 
some restrictive law lays them open to a most ruinous and de- 
structiva competition, by which the leading magazines of 
Burope are thrown into market in a cheap form, and pushed 
about under the very noses of our own monthlies, by a set of 
piratical publishers, who would sacrifice every hope of Ameri¬ 
can literature to a paltry love of gain. It is from the British 
magazines, too. that nearly every thing that is objectionable, 
in a political eenae, to American public sentiment, is derived. 
The bitter and antiring hostility of Blackwood to every thing 
democratic, liberal or meliorating to the great mass of the 
people, is too well known to require comment; and yet this 
unscrupulous and able Tory advocate of church aud atate, 
monarchical and aristocratic institutions, and the oppression and 
slavery of the people, is thrown off by a portion of our Britisb- 
American press, in thousands, every month, to the groat de¬ 
triment of our own magazines, and the serious injury of our 
public opinion. 

While, then, the friends of an international copy-right are 
exertiog themselves with a praiseworthy perseverance, iu behalf 
of American literature and American authors, let them not 
overlook the interests of oar Periodical Literature^ which is 
not the least important feature of our intellectual character 
and greatness. 


Health or the City.— Some weeks since, quite a panle was 
got up by some very foolish people, on account of certain re¬ 
ports of fevers and deaths at the village of Rondout,—con¬ 
nected, as was supposed, with the visit to that port of the 
schooner Vanda, from the West Indies. The excitement, howe¬ 
ver, blew over, without producing any other evil consequen¬ 
ces than a very unnecessary alarm amongst the weak-minded, 
and the diversion of a large amount of the nsnal fall trade 
from this city, by reason of the exaggerated reports which 
were circulated in Philadelphia and elsewhere. The city has 
remained, throughout the season, nnosunlly healthy. 


Wier’s Picture or the Departure or the Pilgrims.— 
There is a tone of majesty blended with a most exquisite soft¬ 
ness, which steals straight into the soul—a calm atmosphere of 
classic beauty, yet broken delightfully up by the frequency and 
variety of feature—in this great work, which makes it an hal¬ 
lowed altar where the soul joys to pour out her sacrificial de¬ 
votion to the Beautiful aud True. It is indeed a great national 
work, and well may we be proud of it, and of its accomplished 
author. They both shall live for ever in the hearts and admi¬ 
ration of their grateful countrymen. 

We have no room to criticise this pointing; nor is there 
need. The daily press of the Metropolis has reached that 
point in its history at which It assumes to be the arbiter of 
literature, poetry and the fine arts, as well as of candidates for 
the Presidency and the latest fashion of ladies' corsets. To the 
familiars and ministering spirits, therefore of this wizard- 
power,—the wave of whose wand is as imperative as the nod 
of Destiny,—we commit all criticism, and yield op cheerftilly 
the negative pleasures of the ml admirari ; contenting our¬ 
selves most heartily, meanwhile, with being delighted and 
enraptured with the splendors of art and the magnificence 
of the Creator, speaking through the responsive soul of 
genius. The contemplation of this picture, then, has given us 
most exquisite and refined enjoyment; and we honestly recom¬ 
mend all, who have not yet done so, to go and light their souls 
at this great lamp of living beanty. 

Music-Printing. —We have frequently, of late, had occasion 
to admire the great improvements made in the getting up and 
printing of music. Until quite recently, American music, in 
appearance, even outvied the 44 pot-hooks and trammels ** of 
Liepsic and Vienoa; but now, Messrs. J. L. Hewitt & Co., 
Firth and Hall, and Atwill, produce specimens of music- 
printing which suffer nothing by being compared with the 
choicest efforts of the London and Parisian musical press. In 
the pieces we have recently examined from our New York 
houses, we have noticed a peculiar clearness and distinctness 
in the characters, and a most skilful grouping, by which the 
eye readily takes in a whole phrase, and analyzes its compo¬ 
nent parts. This is an advantage which our lady readers, and 
amateurs in general, will know how to appreciate. Then en¬ 
graved views presented on the title pages of many of the new 
pieces published by Hewitt, are really amongst the finest 
things we have seen—quite equal to copper-plate. We am 
glud of an opportunity thus to record the progress of a beauti¬ 
ful and valuable art amongst us. 

The Weather. —Never escaped there from Paradise a morn 
magnificent cycle of sunny weather than the three first weeks 
in October. The air seemed to be full of pictures, dropping 
them liberally wherever it stopped to breathe, and leaving n 
gorgeous garlandry of mingled and crushed rainbows upon the 
green locks of the forest. It was for all the world a time to 
“ intoxicate the heart of a ripening grape,"—for which fragrant 
and exquisite figure—beautiftil as the weather itself—thank not 
us, but him of the “ ambrosial curls," who plumes bis dainty 
spirit in the dazzling depths of a mirror worthy of such a 
destiny. 

New Music. —We are Indebted to Oliver Ditson, of Boston, 
for a beautiful copy of the sweet ballad, “ Jeannie Morrison." 
It is a dolicious morceaa. 


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Musical.— The only musical novelty we hare to chronicle 
this month, is the arrival of Madame Cinti Damorean, prima 
doaua from Paris, accompanied by M. Artot, a violinist of great 
celebrity. Their performances offered nothing which excelled 
or perhaps equalled those of Madame Castellan and Mr. Wal¬ 
lace. The two latter still remain in town, giving concerts with 
indifferent success. The truth is, that all these imported ar¬ 
tists foolishly cause themselves to be so puffed in advance of 
their appearance, that we always expect too much. Every one 
who comes, if the daily papers are to be believed, is infinitely 
superior to all who have gone before, and incomparably beyond 
any thing that has ever been conceived or dreamed of. This 
nonsense soon finds its level. 

The Fair! The Fata!—For half the golden and glorious 
days and evenings in the month which has just swept magnifi¬ 
cently past, the cry throughout the city, amongst young aud 
old, grave aod gay, has been, " the Fair! the Fair.” The very 
flower of our population turned out en masse to pay homage to 
the genius and skill of our artists and artizans,—and well were 
they repaid. The exhibition was very perfect and satisfactory. 
Every branch of human industry and skill seemed to be fairly 
and fully represented. The American Institute deserves the 
greatest credit for the commendable manner in which the affair 
was got up and conducted throughout. 

The Ladies’ Fashions are peculiarly brilliant and charm¬ 
ing, this fall,—although an unrestrained indulgence in the 
mode must make heavy drafts upon the purse. The most 
superb articles we have noticed, are an embroidered purple 
velvet robe, and a splendidly embroidered blue black velvet 
cardinal, in a shop near the As tor House The price of each 
of these articles is only eighty dollars. 

Puffer Hopkins’ Poetry.— The author of “ Puffer Hop¬ 
kins,” " The Motley-Book,” etc., has recently printed, at his 
own expense, a volume of " Poems on Man , in His Parians 
Aspects under the American Republic ,” which is a curiosity ! 
It has abundant pretensions, but is really inferior, even to his 
dead-born prose works; and we do not know a lower standard 
of comparison than this. If any of our readers should think 
our judgment too severe, let them try to read tke book ; or, 
what perhaps would be equally conclusive, let them read the 
extracts which the friends of the author quote, in endeavoring 
to praise the work. We bear Mr. Matthews no ill will; indeed, 
he is bis own worst enemy, when he writes, prints, and delibe¬ 
rately publishes, such trash as he sends forth, and calls 
"Books!” There is a word of two syllables which, in our 
opinion, exactly describes Mr. Matthews, as a literary man. 
It begins with an A, and ends with a g; but it is a tabooed 
dissyllable in polite society, and we shall not use it; but there 
is no difference of opinion, that ever toe have heard, as to the 
justice of its application. The author’s assumption is in sad 
keeping with his merit. His show-bills, themselves, are curi¬ 
osities. Witness the one of the “ Poems,” for instance. We 
could say of Mr. Matthews, as Blackwood's Magazine did of a 
similar literary pretender and poetaster :—“ It is small-beer; 
it ought to learn to take things quietly, and be less ambitious. 
Seldom doth Brown Stout , in that obstreperous way, seek to 
burst on the world!” 

Farmers' Encyclopedia. —Here is another sterling peri¬ 
odical, devoted to the great fundamental interest of agriculture 
and rural affairs. The improvements that have been made in 
these branches of knowledge within the last few years, ere in¬ 
deed wonderful; and it is sufficient to say that the " Encyclo¬ 
pedia ” fully keeps pace with the spirit of the age. It is 
thickly studded with fine engravings, and published in monthly 
numbers, by Caroy and Hart. Price twenty-five cents per 
number. 

A New Volume of that sparkling work, the Now Mirror, 
was commenced on the 7th ulL We are glad to learn that 
the success of this bijou periodical is every way commensu¬ 
rate with the hopes and merits of its distinguished editors. 
Could more bo wished ? 


The Wipe op Leon, and other Poems : by Two Sisters 
of the West . D. Appleton if Co. —The moat ambitious— 
and by far the most successful—of these poems, ft* the 
dramatic sketch of "Blanche Daventry.” We have our own 
suspicions that the keeping back of this really beautiful sketch 
was an amiable ruse on the part of the author, in order to 
throw her principal performance into a milder light than the 
assumption of a first place would have imparted. As to the 
“ Wife of Leon,” it is pretty, but entirely too feeble and nerve¬ 
less for the subject. The heroine is evidently drawn from a 
hint furnished by the Empress Josephine and her romantic fate 
—a subject which will probably one day be “ married to im¬ 
mortal verse,” in such a fashion as that the nuptial lights shall 
shed a radiance that may never be extinguished, la the pre¬ 
sent case, however, such purpose and execution are come 
lamentably short of. We hasten to the brief ending, and arrive 
there gladly.—" Blanche,” is a petite dramatic sketch, contain¬ 
ing some exquisite thoughts, wrought out with considerable 
power. We noticed one scene, especially, which betrays a fine 
eye for dramatic effect, and which we should be glad to copy. 
The lady (Blanche,) has just concluded the sad narrative of her 
early love, blighted hopes aDd broken heart, under which she 
is sinking to the grave, sod hears her father’s footsteps on the 
stairs. Wishing not to alarm bis fond love, and determining to 
conceal from him the knowledge of her bitter grief, she sud¬ 
denly changes the sad and mournful tones of the dying to a 
joyous tribute to earth and its beautiful. The scene is highly 
dramatic. 

But it is in the smaller poems, (of which a large proportion 
of the book is composed,) that the peculiar gifts and inspira¬ 
tions of these pleasant sisters are to be detected. They are all 
gentle, unagonized—placid, not with depth, but with absence 
of the tempest’s breath to ruffle. We have received great 
pleasure in perusing this modest and unpretending volume— 
(got up in most superb style,) and shall greet with new delight 
further visitations of the sister moses whose fine spirits have 
given it to the light. Cynicism, or even the severe critic, could 
find many faults; bnt, as we love to regard poetry—and 
woman, as its living type,—as perfection, we shall not look for 
them. 

Works or Byron.— We have received the eleventh and 
twelfth numbers of Carey St Hart’s republication (from stereo¬ 
type plates,) of their edition of Byron. The work was scarcely 
wanted. It is neither cheap enough to be universally circu¬ 
lated, (for which, perhaps, we should be grateftil,) nor good 
enough to be bound in preference to tbe copy one already has 
in his library. These two numbers contain the conclusion of 
Don Juan. 

“ The Present,”— is the title of a new transcendental 
monthly magazine, edited by W. H. Channing. the first num¬ 
ber of which was issued in September. We have not had 
time to read it. We should think the field, however, pretty 
well occupied by Tbe Dial. 

Martin Chuzzlewit.— Dou’t be alarmed, madam—we have 
not tbe slightest intention of inflicting upon you a critique on 
Dickens. Our only object is to acknowledge tbe reception of 
the ninth part of Martin Chuzzlewit, with two funny engrav¬ 
ings, from Lea St Blanchard, Philadelphia. 

Cyclopedia or Biblical Literature.— This excellent and 
invaluable work, edited by John Kitto, Esq., has now reached 
its third number. No similar publication, either in tbe aerial 
form or otherwise, with which we are acquainted, contains so 
much solid, useftil and at the same time interesting matter aa 
this. It is published by Mark H. Newman, 199 Broadway, and 
sold for seventy-five cents per number. 

The Annuals fall off this year. There never was stamina 
enough about them to stand the lest of criticism, or even cool 
judgment. This season, so fur as we have seen, they are 
scarcely even pretty. To no other merit have they evor made 
pretension. 


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THE LADIES’ COMPANION. 


NEW-YOBK, DECEMBER, 1843. 


SILK CULTURE IN CHINA. 

The developments which will probably soon be 
made of the character, progress, civilization and 
refinement of the Chinese, will undoubtedly be 
such as to startle us of Europe and America from 
our dream of fancied superiority, and to enrich 
our stores of knowledge with intellectual trea¬ 
sures of inconceivable worth. In every thing 
that we yet know of this strange and almost 
miraculous people, they not only astonish but 
surpass us. They unquestionably exceed all 
other people on earth in temperance, industry, 
constancy and the domestic affections—in public 
order, obedience to rulers and respect for what is 
intrinsically venerable—in the mechanic arts, in 
skill, ingenuity and good taste, as applied to the 
physical elegancies and embellishments of life. 
We need only refer to their still unimitated and 
inimitable porcelain manufactures—to their deli¬ 
cate and most exquisite ivory carvings—to their 
fire-works—but more particularly to their mag¬ 
nificent silk fabrics—for evidence of a nicety and 
perfection of skill and knowledge far beyond any 
thing that all the genius and science of Europe 
and America have yet accomplished. J 

What their literature may yet disclose we can 
only guess at—or, at most, judge of from analogy. 
We have generally been taught to believe by our 
geographers and historians that in this respect, 
the Chinese were but a semi-enlightcned people, 
and could claim no fellowship with the descend¬ 
ants of the great Phenician branch of the human 
family. While they have been allowed the pos¬ 
session of great mechanical skill, and such other 
second class qualities as could not be denied to 
them, it has been industriously asserted, until the 
opinion has been suffered to become unquestioned, 
that they lacked that innate sense of the beautiful 
—that appreciation of harmony and symmetry on 
a scale wide as the universe itself—which directed 
the splendid labors of the Greeks, and has strewn 
one part of Europe with the fragmentary remains 
of a genius now apparently lost upon earth. 

If we might be permitted to hazard an opinion, 
we should say that we have as yet no evidence of 
this. We admit that the gait and costume of the 
Chinese are singularly ungraceful—that their 
architecture is a violation of the strict rules of 
classic art: but we still believe that the rough and 
ragged cocoon from which is manufactured those 
exquisite fabrics which all the art of Europe ean- 
7 


not imitate, is but an emblem of the Chinese 
themselves—commonplace and uninteresting to 
the ordinary beholder, but nevertheless instinct 
with a beauty the surpassing delicacy of which 
can only be equalled by the dainty fingers of 
Nature herself. We confess that we shall not 
be surprized to find that the literature of China 
possesses a truthfulness, a tenderness, a virtuous 
earnestness and sincerity, of which we as yet 
know nothing—and which will even throw its 
shadow upon the most highly prized of all our 
Greek and English classics. 

But we must not be seduced into a dissertation 
on Chinese literature, while merely calling atten¬ 
tion to the subject of the culture of silk. We 
have thought that at the present moment, when 
this important branch of industry has taken so 
strong a hold upon public attention in this counr 
try as to call for the special action and counte¬ 
nance of one of our most important public insti¬ 
tutions, (the American Institute,) we could no* 
do a greater favor to our readers than to present 
them with a second plate, representing another 
portion of the labor of rearing silkworms, and 
gathering the precious product of their chrysalis 
existence, which, under the touch of human skill, 
expands into the gorgeous magnificence that cur¬ 
tains pleasant dreams—that lies next the swelling 
heart of beauty, and sheds new lustre upon the 
proudest form of loveliness. Our former engra¬ 
ving on this subject, was received with universal 
favor; and we think we have reason to be proud 
of the present one, which all acknowledge, who 
have examined the proof, to be superior to the first. 

Our plate upon the silk culture in China, which 
we present this month, is a most accurate repre¬ 
sentation of the process of gathering the cocoons 
and feeding the worm. So well has the burin 
performed its task, that very little, by way of de¬ 
tail, remains for us to add with the dull pen. To 
those who seek for more minute information we 
would recommend a perusal of the admirable 
speeches and reports made at the recent Fair of 
the American Institute, held in this city. In 
them they will find much that is new and inte¬ 
resting, that will probably lead them to look there¬ 
after upon the silk culture—not, as is now too 
much the case, merely in the light of a series of 
amusing but profitless experiments—-but as one 
of the future elements of our national wealth and 
greatness. 


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58 


THE ESCAPE. 


O rif in a 1. 

THE ESCAPE. 


BT MRS. CAROLINE ORNE. 

44 Pro.-1 like thee well, 

And will employ thee in some eerrice preseotly. 

Girl .—In what you please.— I will do what I can.” 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

On a cold, bleak evening, late in November, a 
female enveloped in a weather-beaten plaid cloak, 
was seen hurrying along the side-walk of a fash¬ 
ionable street in one of the Atlantic cities. Once 
she ascended the door-steps of a splendid man¬ 
sion, and was about to pull the bell, when a sud¬ 
den burst of merriment from within seemed to 
deter her, and she again resumed her course with 
an air more hasty and timid than before. Having 
passed a dozen or more houses, she paused in 
front of one that, compared with the others, wore 
a quiet, secluded air. After some hesitation, she 
ventured to ring the bell. The door was opened 
by a servant of whom she inquired if she could 
see the mistress of the house. 

“I will see,” he replied. 

In a few moments he reappeared, and con¬ 
ducted her into a parlor, elegantly though not 
showily furnished. The inmates were a middle- 
aged lady, of a pale, though not sickly counte¬ 
nance, somewhat precise in dress and manners, 
and a young man who sat by the table, reading. 

44 1 am very anxious,” said the female approach¬ 
ing the lady, 44 to obtain employment in some 
family for a few months—are you willing to 
furnish me with some ?” 

44 What kind of employment would you like?” 
inquired the lady. 

44 1 should prefer needle-work, either plain or 
ornamental, but am willing to undertake any 
labor whatever, that I can perform to your satis¬ 
faction.” 

44 Well, sit down, and we will talk more about 
it, but first tell me your name, and if you have a 
recommendation from your last employer.” 

44 My name,” she replied, hesitating a little, 
44 is Mary—Mary Leviston.” 

44 And the name of the family where you last 
resided ?” 

44 Pardon me, madam, but I cannot tell.” 

She was evidently much agitated as she replied, 
and forgetful of the faded cloak that concealed her 
form, it slipped from one shoulder, and revealed 
a rich white satin dress, trimmed with blonde, 
and an elegant pearl neck-lace. The lady now 
observed for the first time that she was very beau¬ 
tiful, a discovery that the young man had already 
made, although at the time of her entrance, he 


was in the midst of a deeply interesting article 
on political economy. The lady put on a look 
of severity, and fixing her eyes on the neck-lace, 
told her that she could give no employment to 
a person who found means to obtain such expen¬ 
sive ornaments. 

44 Oh, don’t turn me away,” said the girl, 
bursting into tears, and wringing her hands in 
the greatest distress and agitation. 44 If you do 
I don’t know what will become of me.” 

The young man now hastily threw aside his 
book, and approaching the lady, said in a low 
voice, “Aunt Leonard, I beg to speak a few 
words with you in private.” 

Mrs. Leonard rose, and passing through the 
folding doors, to a distance that conversation 
carried on in an undertone could not be heard by 
her visitor, although, feeling some anxiety rela¬ 
tive to a gold watch that hung over the mantel, 
she could keep her eye on her, 44 Well, Percy,” 
said she to her nephew, who had followed her 
closely, 44 what have you to say that is of a nature 
so private ?” 

44 Simply, that I do wish that you would take 
this young girl on trial. I know what your im¬ 
pression is, but if I ever saw innocence depicted 
in a human countenance, I see it in her’s. Arti¬ 
fice may have Tured her into the haunts of vice, 
and if she has made her escape, turn her not 
away from your door and compel her to return.” 

44 Percy,” said his Aunt, “if her face were not 
so beautiful, were its expression ever so innocent, 
do you think she would find in you so powerful 
a pleader?” 

44 She ought to,” ha replied, slightly coloring, 
44 and I think she would. Promise me, Aunt, 
that you will receive her.” 

44 No, for your sake, I must turn her away.” 

44 That you shall never do. I promised my 
friend Northcote, that I would spend a few weeks 
with him, and although it is not exactly the 
season to make a visit in the country, I will start 
to-morrow morning. Now, Aunt, you have no 
excuse, or none that you are not capable of 
despising, if it will prevent you from performing 
a good action. I have sewing enough myself 
that I wish to get done, to employ her three 
months.” 

44 Well, Percy, since you are so earnest for her 
to remain, if you will promise to make your 
visit to your friend Northcote, I will take her a 
week or two upon trial, though I should not be 
surprized if she should know no more about 
hemming and stitching than you do.” 


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THX ESCAPE. 


69 


Mrs. Leonard returned and resumed the seat 
ehe had left. 

“ I think you told me that your name is Mary 
Leviston,” said she to the girl, who sat weeping 
and trembling. 

“ I did.” 

“As my nephew thinks of leaving town to¬ 
morrow, to be gone some time, and as I shall be 
rather lonely, I have concluded to let you remain 
a week or two upon trial.” 

“Your words are a thousand times better than 
life to me,” said she, starting up and seizing 
Mrs. Leonard’s hand, which she pressed to her 
lips. 

“ Stay,” said Mrs. Leonard, disengaging her 
hand with an air that showed that she was slightly 
annoyed, “if you remain, there are several 
conditions which you must promise to comply 
with.” 

“I will comply with any condition that you 
wish. All I ask is, that you will suffer me to 
stay.” 

“ The first condition is, that you must under 
no pretext whatever, leave the house except to 
attend church on the Sabbath, and then it must 
be in company with some person I shall provide 
to go with you.” 

“ That will suit me, exactly—I do not wish to 
go out.” 

“Another is, that you must not attempt to 
hold any correspondence with your old asso¬ 
ciates.” 

“ There is not a person on earth with whom I 
wish to hold any correspondence.” 

The third and last condition is, that should 
any of your old acquaintance call, you will refuse 
to see them.” 

“All that you require, I should have per¬ 
formed voluntarily.” 

“Well, then, you had better take off your 
cloak and hood, for the room is rather too warm 
to require such warm garments.” 

She withdrew to the opposite side of the 
apartment, and Percy observed that at the 
moment she removed her hood, she tore a 
wreath of flowers from her hair, and crushed it 
in her hand, which soon afterwards, when she 
imagined she was not noticed, she threw into 
the fire.” 

When divested of her cloak and hood, with 
her rich dress exactly fitted to her form, and her 
bright golden hair enwoven with pearls, Mrs. 
Leonard could not help confessing to herself, 
that she had never seen a female so perfectly 
beautiful. If the admiration of Percy was gra¬ 
duated on a lower scale, his countenance was no 


true index of his mind, and the idea of his pro¬ 
posed visit into the country, began to grow 
exceedingly distasteful to him. 

The next morning, at the breakfast table. 
Miss Leviston appeared in a calico morning 
dress, which Mrs. Leonard had provided for 
her, with her hair, which was plainly parted on 
her forehead, compressed into one heavy, rich 
braid, which shone with a lustre nearly equal to 
the small gold comb, which confined it to the 
back part of her head. Her demeanor was 
modest almost to bashfulness, her color varying 
with every motion, from the palest hue of the 
blush-rose, to that which dyes the leaves nearest 
its heart. Mrs. Leonard was at a loss whether 
to attribute this fitful varying of her complexion 
to modesty or guilt, but Percy, who had a great 
deal of chivalry about him, would not have hesi¬ 
tated, had it been the custom in those degenerate 
days, to break a lance with the bravest man in the 
country in vindication of her innocence. 

“Have you sent to secure a seat in the 
stage?” inquired his Aunt, as they rose from 
the table. 

“ No, but it is time enough yet—it will not 
start this half-hour.” 

“You are mistaken, Percy—it lacks but just 
fifteen minutes of the time.” 

“You are right, I believe,” he replied, looking 
at his watch, “ but never mind, if I am too late I 
can just as well go to-morrow.” 

“ That will not do,” said his Aunt, with a look 
and tone of severity. “ If you miss the stage, I 
shall lend you my carriage.” 

“ Well, Aunt, since you are so earnest to get 
rid of me, I will send Patrick to tell the driver to 
call for me.” 

“ No, it is too late now to trust to servants— 
go yourself, and call for your trunk as you 
pass.” 

“ Just as you say—I am all obedience, but if 
my exile prove too tedious I shall return before 
the expiration of the time I mentioned.” 

“ Not without writing first,” replied his Aunt. 

“ To be sure not—I shall give you feir 
warning.” 

Having said this, he shook hands warmly with 
his Aunt, and bowing with an air of profound 
respect to Miss Leviston, left the apartment. 

Mrs. Leonard, thinking it not best to task the 
skill of her new needle-woman too severely at 
first, gave her a cambric handkerchief to hem, 
which being performed with neatness and de¬ 
spatch, she ventured to trust her with a pair of 
fine linen wrist-bands for Percy, which, according 
I to the old fashion, when women probably found 


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60 


THE ESCAPE'. 


it difficult to fill up all their time, were to be 
stitched twice across, each stitch to embrace just 
two threads. She had finished one wrist-band 
entirely to Mrs. Leonard’s satisfaction, when the 
door-bell rang. Miss Leviston gave a nervous 
start, and rising from her chair requested Mrs. 
Leonard’s leave to retire to her own apartment. 
The person who rang proved to be Mrs. Reding, 
a lady with whom Mrs. Leonard was intimately 
acquainted, and to whom she determined to 
mention the case of her new seamstress, and ask 
her advice relative to the propriety of permitting 
her to remain. But Mrs. Reding had something 
important to communicate, and commenced by 
saying, 

44 Have you heard the news, Mrs. Leonard ?” 

44 No, indeed—what news?” 

44 You know old Mr. Draper, don’t you ?” 

44 1 know there is such a person, though I am 
not acquainted with him.” 

44 And you have heard of the beautiful Miss 
Winthrop, his niece and ward ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 And of old Bamer, whose property is said to 
exceed a million ?” 

44 1 have.” 

44 Well, it seems that Bamer took a fancy to 
Miss Winthrop, and asked her guardian’s leave 
to propose to her. Mr. Draper’s consent being 
readily obtained, he proposed and was rejected. 
Not satisfied with this, he continued to persecute 
her with his addresses, and finally, it is said, 
offered her guardian a heavy sum if he would 
either by persuasion or threats induce her to 
marry him. ‘Make yourself easy, Mr. Barner,’ 
said he, 4 she shall be your bride.’ He found, 
however, that he had undertaken a difficult task, 
and despairing of other means to effect his wishes, 
locked her into her own apartment, and gave out 
that she had left town on a visit. For several 
weeks she remained obstinate, but knowing her¬ 
self to be entirely in her guardian’s power, and 
becoming weary of her imprisonment, she told 
him if he would release her, she would marry 
Mr. Bamer. As he suspected that she intended 
to evade her promise, he told her that he could 
not trust her with her liberty ’till the hour arrived 
for the performance of the marriage ceremony. 
Knowing that remonstrance would prove vain, 
she, to appearance, meekly acquiesced. Yester¬ 
day morning was the time Mr. Draper wished it 
to take place, but she insisted on its being de¬ 
ferred ’till the evening. A splendid bridal dress 
had been prepared, in which she was duly arrayed, 
and Mr. Barner, fine as his tailor could make him, 
was punctual to the moment. One of the bride- 


maids now entered the apartment and whispered 
to Mr. Draper requesting him to give her the 
key to unlock the bride, as her assistant had just 
called to her and told her that Miss Winthrop 
was quite ready. 

44 But why were you not there to assist them ?” 
inquired Mr. Draper. 

“ I arrived rather late,” she replied, 44 and as 
you happened to be out, I could not gain admit¬ 
tance.” 

Five minutes elapsed, but the bride did not 
appear. Mr. Bamer kept liis eyes constantly 
fastened on the door by which she was to enter. 
Another five minutes passed, and Mr. Baraer's 
eyes began to ache, so that he was obliged not 
only to wink, but even to rub them. 

“ What does the girl mean by keeping us 
waiting so long ?” said Mr. Draper, and he rang 
the bell. 

A girl appeared at the door. 

44 Go tell Miss Winthrop,” said he, 44 that she 
will oblige us by not keeping us waiting any 
longer.” 

The girl obeyed, and after an absence of a few 
minutes, returned, saying that Miss Winthrop’s 
chamber was empty. 

44 1 should not wonder if she had contrived to 
make her escape,” said Mr. Draper, starting up 
and rushing towards the stair-case, followed 
closely by Mr. Bamer. They soon proved the 
truth of what the girl had told them, by a peep 
into the deserted chamber. Bride and bride- 
maids, all were gone. Mr. Bamer ran down 
stairs, and going to the front door, inquired of 
some persons who were passing, if they had seen 
a lady in the dress of a bride. Being answered 
in the negative, he ran down street like an insane 
man, asking the same question of every one he 
met. Every exertion has been made on the part 
of her guardian to find her, but up to this time, 
she has eluded all search.” 

Mrs. Leonard, who had listened to Mrs. 
Reding’s account without interrupting her, told 
her, when she had finished, that she doubted 
not but that Miss Winthrop was at that moment, 
beneath her roof. She then related to her the 
incidents of the preceding evening. 

44 It must be she,” replied Mrs. Reding. 44 1 
know her perfectly well, and your description 
suits her exactly.” 

44 She did wrong,” said Mrs. Leonard, 44 not to 
confide in me. I was inclined to regard her in a 
very unfavotable light, and .had it not been for 
Percy, who for the sake of her remaining, con¬ 
sented to leave town, I should have turned her 
away.” 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


61 


“ As she was wholly unacquainted with you,” 
replied Mrs. Reding, “she could not tell whether 
it would be safe to repose confidence in you or 
not.” 

“ That is true. There are some who might 
have taken measures to return her to her guar¬ 
dian, or rather to him who has proved himself 
so bsjpe a betrayer of his trust.” 

Both ladies agreed that it would be best for 
Mrs. Leonard to inform her immediately that she 
had discovered who she was, and to quiet her 
fears by assuring her, that as Mr. Draper had 
exceeded the limits of lawful control, by con¬ 
fining her to her chamber in order to compel her 
to marry a person that was disagreeable to her, 
he would not be suffered to resume his guar¬ 
dianship. 

That evening' in a letter to her nephew, Mrs. 
Leonard related the whole story, and the next 
evening but one, she had the pleasure of wel¬ 
coming him home. 

More to tease Mr. Draper, than for any other 
reason, the secret of Miss Winthrop’s abode was 
not suffered to transpire, and he, as well as the 
public, about two months afterwards, were first 
enlightened on the subject by the following para¬ 
graph in one of the daily newspapers. 

“ Married, yesterday morning, at the residence of Mr#. I*eon- 

ard, in -street, Percy Leonard, Esquire, to Mie» Mary 

LeTMton Winthrop, daughter of the late Judge Wtathrop, of 
ibis city.” 


Original. 

MOZART’S LAST BEQUEST. 

BT MRS. H. M. PARSONS. 


It in fomewbere atated that Mozart, having completed his 
Requiem, desired hia daughter to aiug a favorite melancholy 
aong, and while she waa singing, hie apirit look ita flight to the 
abadowy world. 


Mary, sing again the plaint 
Which I love at eve to hear, 

And in music, sweet but faint, 

Let it fall upon my ear; 

And when gather’d with my sires 
I shall sleep with those of yore, 
Strike at night my harp’s still wires— 
Sound the notes I love once more. 

But remember that your voice 
Cannot swell the heavenly choir, 

If you make this world your choice 
And no greater good desire. 

Would you join the angel-throng, 
Heaven your spirit must renew— 
Heaven alone can teach a song 
Sweeter than I ask of you. 


Original. 

THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA.* 

BT THE AUTHOft OF “THE YEMASSEE,” “THE KINSMAN,” ETC. 

LACHANE, THE DELIVERER; 

A sequel to the story of Guemache , the drummer. 

We trust that our readers have not forgotten 
a no less tragical than true history, which we 
offered them in previous pages of this journal— 
(see p. 29, No. 1. for November)—in illustration 
of the romance of Carolina, during the first 
period of the settlement of the Huguenots in 
that state. It will be remembered that this 
narrative was chiefly occupied with the fate of 
one Guernache, a fellow of rare qualities of good, 
but who fell the victim to the tyrannical and 
cruel moods of Albert, the captain of the colony. 
We closed that sketch, not so much because we 
had reached a stage where it properly rested, as 
because of our limits, which rendered it necessary 
that we should seasonably pause at the first con¬ 
venient stopping-place. We shall now simply 
remind our readers that there was a participant 
in the supposed crime for which Guernache 
perished, one Lachane, or La Chere,—a noble 
fellow,—bold, true, and very much beloved and 
respected by his comrades. In the same unwise 
and violent spirit which had prompted the course 
of Albert towards Guernache, he was determined 
to proceed against Lachane. But the aspects of 
the two cases were not exactly the same. La¬ 
chane had friends not possessed by Guernache, 
and Renaud, the creature of Albert, was rather 
more favorably disposed towards the latter than 
the former offender. Besides, Lachane had not 
singularly offended the self-esteem of the com¬ 
mander, in a respect so very sensitive to hurt 
among men, as that which relates to their inter¬ 
course with women. The Indian damsels had 
not so clearly shown to the captain that Lachane 
was preferred to himself, though as the latter was 
very superior in physiognomy to the former, 
it is very probable that they felt the prefe¬ 
rence which they did not yet declare. With 
these qualifiying circumstances, likewise, in the 
case of Lachane, he was brought up for judg¬ 
ment. His offence, such as it was, was not de¬ 
nied. Some palliation, however, was attempted, 
and the very effort seems to have irritated the 
self importance of the captain to a very high 
degree. The sequel of the affair was, that La¬ 
chane was doomed to banishment,—sentenced to 
perpetual exile upon a neighboring island of the 


* Continued from page 39. 


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62 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


sea, to which he was conducted, in melancholy 
state, by the pinnace belonging to the fortress. 

It is not known to us at the present day, to 
which of the numerous sea islands of the neigh¬ 
borhood the unhappy Lachane was banished. 
But it was one divided from the main, and from 
the colony, by an arm of the sea, of such breadth, 
and so open to the most violent action of the 
ocean, that any return of the exile, without 
assistance from his comrades, was not appre¬ 
hended. The bland was three leagues from 
Fort Carolina,—was almost entirely barren,—a 
heap of sand,—treeless and herbless,—without 
foliage to shelter from the sun and storm, or 
fruits to provide against famine. On this island, 
companionless and hopeless, was the unhappy 
man destined to remain; receiving, on the re¬ 
turn of every eighth day, a certain allotted supply 
of provisions ; an allowance meted out against 
his merest necessity. Certainly a more cruel 
punishment, adopted in a more wanton exercise 
of despotic power, could not have been devised 
by any superior. Death had been a gentler 
doom; for if, already, the colonists, living 
together as they did, and cheered by the society 
of one another,—the ties and assurances of friend¬ 
ship, pleasant sports, and the interchange of en¬ 
livening thought,—if they, even with these reliev¬ 
ing circumstances, found their abode irksome 
beyond endurance,—as now begun to be the 
case,—what must be the sufferings of him thus 
put apart even from such solace as they pos¬ 
sessed,—uncheered by the face and words of 
fellow man,—and deprived even of the resources 
whereby ingenuity might devise means of relief, 
and exercises which might furnish a substitute 
for employment. No sentence could more com¬ 
pletely have shown to “ our Frenchmen ” how 
small was the sympathy between their comman¬ 
der and themselves,—how slightly he valued their 
lives, and with what contempt, if not hostility, he 
regarded their feelings and their affections! 

The affair of Guernache, and the subsequent 
banishment of Lachane, produced a great sensa¬ 
tion among the colonists,—a sensation not the 
less deep because it was restrained from expres¬ 
sion. Had Albert pardoned Lachane, or let him 
off with some slight punishment, it is not impro¬ 
bable that the matter would have ended there, 
and the cruel proceedings against Guernache 
might have been forgotten. But these were 
kept alive, by those which followed against their 
other favorite, and some of the boldest among 
them did not scruple to expostulate with their 
superior upon his severity. In the performance 
of this (supposed) duty, they incurred no little 


peril. It seemed to the jealous importance of 
Captain Albert that such expostulation was 
itaelf an impertinence, and hb answer to the 
prayer of the applicants was couched in the 
language of threatening and contumely. They 
retired from hb presence in dbgust, and with a 
discontent which was the more dangerous be¬ 
cause they succeeded most effectually in con¬ 
trolling its utterance. 

But if such was the state of the relations be¬ 
tween Albert and hb people, what were they 
when it was discovered at the close of the first 
eighth day after the banishment, that hb orders 
had been suspended for providing him with the 
allowance of lood which had been decreed him. 
The captain was silent, and, unless at his bid¬ 
ding, nobody could venture to furnish to the 
poor exile his miserable supplies. The eighth 
day passed. The men murmured among them¬ 
selves; and, at length, on the morning of the 
ninth, one Nicholas Barre, a man of great firm¬ 
ness and intelligence, presented himself boldly 
before Albert, and ventured to remind him of 
Lachane. But, as if a strange madness had 
seized upon the senses of this reckless person¬ 
age, be answered the suggestion with indignity 
and insult. 

“ Begone!” he exclaimed, “ and trouble me 
no more with your complaints. What b it to 
me if the scoundrel does perish. He deserves 
his fate. I mean that he shall perish. I shall 
be glad to hear of his death. Away! you de¬ 
serve a like punishment. Let me hear another 
word on the subject, and the speaker shall share 
hb fate.” 

This answer was accompanied by all the signs 
of brute anger and earnestness ; nor did the cap¬ 
tain spare his oaths in the enforcing the cruel 
severity of his determination. His fury seemed 
little short of insanity, and to such a degree was 
it shown, that Barr6 deemed it advisable to re¬ 
tire from the presence of the man, whom, it 
would seem, from the madness that possessed 
him, God had already determined to destroy. 
Such, indeed, was his doom,—uttered already in 
the secret soul of Barr6, and echoed by nine- 
tenths of those around him. But such a sen¬ 
tence, to be carried into execution, required time 
and consultation, and, in the meanwhile “ our 
comrade must not starve!” 

“ La Chere must not starve!” said Nicholas 
Barr6, to a select few of hb associates when they 
met that night in secret. Arrangements were 
accordingly made for carrying him provisions. 
A canoe was procured, and Barrg and another 
set forth at midnight on their generous mission. 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


63 


The night was calm and beautiful,—the sea, 
unruffled by the breeze, lay, smooth as a mirror, 
between the lonely island and the main. The 
island itself looked lovely,—though barren and 
without a tree,—in the silvery light of the moon. 
With active and sinewy arms they pulled to k in 
safety, the current favoring their course. But 
what was their surprize and consternation, when, 
on reaching the island, they found no answer to 
their call. They soon compassed it, from side 
to side, but the banished La Chane was not to 
be found. Had he been carried off by a foreign 
▼essel ?—by the savages ?—had he thrown him¬ 
self, in desperation, into the sea 7 There was 
no answer to the question. There was no end 
to their doubts, and hopeless of his fate, and 
fearing the worst, they returned to their canoe, 
and recrossed the bay in safety, their hearts more 
than ever filled with disgust and fury, at the cru¬ 
elty and malice of their commander. 

But, ere they reached Fort Caroline, they were 
startled by the outline of a human form that pre¬ 
sented itself between the fort and the river. At 
first the fugitive seemed to be approaching them, 
at the next moment, however, it went aside, as if 
in a panic, and made an attempt to conceal itself 
in the forest. They gave pursuit instantly, and 
as the efforts of the fugitive were feebly made, 
they soon overtook him. To their great gratifi¬ 
cation and surprize, they discovered him to be 
the man whom they had been seeking,—the 
banished Lachane. His story was soon told. 
He was nearly perished of hunger. He had not 
eaten for three days. The food which had been 
furnished him, had been partly carried from him 
by birds or beasts, (he knew not which,) while 
he slept, and in the failure of his promised sup¬ 
plies, he became desperate. 

44 For that matter,” said the exile, 44 I had be¬ 
come desperate before. Food was not the want. 
It was my countrymen for whom I yearned,— 
the human face that I craved to see,—and I 
resolved to brave the death by which I was 
threatened, that I might have the joy of seeing 
you once again.” 

Touching, indeed, was the embrace which 
they gave the wretched man. 

44 You should not have perished,” said Nicho¬ 
las Barr6, boldly. 44 I, for one, am tired of this 
tyranny, and am resolved to bear it no longer. 
There are othere, too, of my feeling and resolve. 
But tell us, La Chere, how came you over this 
broad stretch of sea ?” 

44 By the mercy of God, who made the seas 
calm, and gave me favoring currents, and threw 
you fragment of a ship's spar within my reach. 


But I nearly sunk. I am weak,—very weak. 
Give me to eat. 

A flask of generous wine with which they had 
provided themselves, cheered and inspirited the 
sufferer, who then, under a broad palmetto, sat 
down to the food which the friends brought from 
their canoe. Much it rejoiced them to see him 
eat. Ere he was done, Lachane spoke as fol¬ 
lows : 

44 1 rejoice to hear that others, like yourself, 
have resolved to submit no longer to this tyranny. 
In coming back to the fort, I did not come back 
to yield myself willingly and unresistingly to the 
power of Albert. I came to avenge Guemache, 
and rescue you. I came, if necessary, to perish, 
—but to strike a fair blow for freedom ere I fell.” 

44 That blow must be struck soon. We are 
no longer freemen. Albert rules us with iron 
hand. Every day witnesses against him. Some 
new cruelty,—some new tyranny, adds daily tw 
our afflictions, and very few are spared. Wer 
are not men to submit longer.” 

44 Hear me,” said Lachane 44 you have not 
yet engaged in any scheme 7” 

44 No !—but we are ripe for it.” 

44 Very good ! Let me strike the blow. It is 
an honor which I demand as a compensation for 
what I have suffered. It will be easy. Hear 
what I propose.” \ 

Lachane continued. His counsel was, that 
Albert should be advised of an unnsual multi¬ 
tude of deer upon one of the hunting islands in 
the neighborhood. These islands are, some of 
them, remarkable for the beauty and intricacy of 
their forests. Here the deer assembled in multi* 
tudes. Here they might be seen, at various 
periods, crossing from the main,—swimming inr 
little bands of five or ten, across small rivers and 
arms of the sea, to their favorite browsing patches# 
To one of these islands Barr6 might offer tw 
conduct his commander, with the assurance that 
a large herd had been discovered crossiog but 
the night before. Meanwhile, taking possession 
of the canoe, Lachane, provided by his friends 
with weapons, was to place himself in convenient 
shelter upon the island, and avail himself of the 
first opportunity to strike the blow. This privi¬ 
lege he demanded, not only because of bis supe¬ 
rior claim to vengeance, but because having 
already incurred the doom of outlawry, he 
should, by the commission of the proposed 
crime, undergo no more risk than hung over 
him before. He should thus save harmless 
those friends who yet sympathize with him in bis 
project. 

We need not follow these arrangements. They 


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64 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


were discussed fully, and the parties separated,— 
Barr6 and his companion to regain the fort, and 
Lacbane once more to embark, ere day should 
dawn, for the destined place of equal security 
and vengeance. Every thing succeeded to their 
wishes. Albert, who was passionately fond of 
sport, was easily deceived by the representations 
of Barrd and his comrade. The pinnace was 
fitted out, and, at an early hour, attended by the 
two conspirators, and half a dozen other persons, 
—the greater number of whom were supposed to 
be as hostile to the tyrant as themselves,—the 
victim set forth, little dreaming that he should 
be the hunted, instead of the hunter. Renaud, 
by whom he was also accompanied, was the only 
person of the party upon whom he could rely. 
But neither his creature nor himself seemed to 
entertain any suspicion of the truth. On the 
contrary, the petty tyrant, on a sudden, and by 
way of novelty, threw aside the terrors of his 
authority. He could jest when the fit was on 
him. He had his moments of play;—a sort of 
feline faculty of sporting on the very edge of 
crime, and, in a higher sphere, might have 
played skilfully with the fiddle while the city was 
in flames. But though he condescended to jest 
with his men, there was a stern silence on the 
part of Nicholas Barrd which the unwonted good 
humor and condescension of his captain could 
not overcome. Nothing vexes superiority more 
than when it condescends in vain, and the cold¬ 
ness and silence of Barr6, and the insensibility 
with which he heard those good things of his 
captain, which occasioned ready laughter in the 
rest, finally extorted from the latter a comment 
which gave full utterance to his spleen. 

“ By my life, Lieutenant Barr6,”—such was 
the rank of this conspirator,—* 1 but that I know 
thee better, I should think, from thy present 
dullness, thou wert one of those to whom merri¬ 
ment is a hateful thing,—that a clever jest gave 
offence to thy soul, and a cheerful laugh sent 
thee off in sullenness to bed.” 

“ Pardon me, Captain Albert,” said the per¬ 
son addressed, fixing a steady eye upon him, and 
speaking in very deliberate accents,— 11 but I was 
thinking of the deer that we shall strike to-day. 
Doubtless, he is even now making as merry as 
thyself among his comrades, little dreaming that 
the hunter hath his thoughts already fixed upon 
the choice morsels of his flanks, which a few 
hours hence shall be smoking above the fire. 
Truly, we are but little wiser than the deer. 
The merriest of us may be struck as soon. The 
man hath as few securities as the brute that 
runs.” 


Captain Albeit saw no meaning in this answer, 
but the matter of it was well remembered by 
those who heard it, when the events of that day 
were known. 

Little did Captain Albert dream of the fate 
which lay in wait for him. He was, indeed, in 
the merriest of humor, and seemed, with the 
cares of the commander, to have thrown aside 
all of his severities. Never had he been more 
gracious, though his good humor now was rather 
the condescension of one who is secure of his 
authority, and can resume its functions at any 
moment, than of any hearty sympathy with his 
companions. But for an occasional sarcasm, in 
which he indulged at the expense of his men, 
and by which he kept alive their antipathies, the 
livelier and gentler mood in which he suffered 
them now to behold him, might have rendered 
them reluctant to prosecute their purpose. They 
might have relented at the last moment, had there 
been discovered any sincere relentings in him. 
But with a look to his comrades, the stern Nicho¬ 
las Barr6 showed that he kept the secret purpose 
in his soul, and in a silence that wounded the 
pride of their haughty superior, they drew nigh 
together to the shore. 

Albert was the first to land. He was impatient 
to join in the chase, of which he was exceedingly 
fond. The sport was a simple one in the region 
in question. It consisted rather in a judicious 
arrangement and distribution of the hunters, than 
in any particular speed of foot, or skill of weapon. 
The island was small,—the woods not dense or 
intricate, and the only outlet of escape was across 
the little arm of the sea which separated the 
island from the main. The hunters were re¬ 
quired to watch this passage, as, when pressed 
from the opposite shore, the deer naturally 
rushed in this direction. Three men were 
accordingly stationed here, and one other placed 
within the boat, in order to pick up the chase 
should it succeed in getting into the water. 
Barr6, in order to prevent the escape of Albert 
by this means, contrived that this man should be 
in the secret of the conspiracy. His name was 
Lamotte,—a small, fierce personage, of fiery and 
passionate nature, who had suffered frequent 
indignities from the commander, which his posi¬ 
tion required him to endure without complaint. 
But his hate was only the more violent in conse¬ 
quence, and his desire for revenge the more in¬ 
tense. 

Their arrangements all completed, the hm*> 
ters skirted the wood which occupied the centre 
of the island, and, gradually separating, found 
their way into its recesses. A single dog which 


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THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


66 


they carried with them was unleashed, and the 
game soon afoot. As the bay of the bound 
became more frequent, the blood of Albert be¬ 
came more and more excited, and, pressing for¬ 
ward, he had the delight of seeing a numerous 
herd of the sleek-skinned citizens of the wood, 
well limbed and nobly antlered, dart from cover 
into the space before him. A good shot was 
Captain Albert. He fired, and had the satisfac¬ 
tion to see fall, headlong-sprawling, one of the 
largest bucks of the herd. He shouted his de¬ 
light aloud, and was confounded at the echo and 
the vision which it called up. At his side, and 
in his very ears, arose another shout, louder than 
his own,—a wild, indescribable yell, which sent 
a sudden thrill of horror into his soul. At the 
same moment a gaunt, fierce, half-famished form 
darted forth, and fixed himself directly in his 
path. 

“ Ho l tyrant, do I have you now 1” 

Wild with fury was the countenance of the 
speaker, terrible was the language of his eyes, 
threatening, indeed, the action of his uplifted 
arm. A keen blade flashed in his grasp, and the 
discovery which Albert made, in the same instant, 
that the wild man before him, thus armed, was 
the person he had so cruelly banished from his 
friends, and destined for starvation as well as 
exile, had the effect of unnerving him at once. 
The guilty conscience enfeebled his arm, and 
deprived his soul of all its courage. Besides, 
hie weapon was discharged. Except the couteau 
dt chasse at his side, he had no means of defence; 
and even were this out, and grasped in readiness, 
what would it avail against the superior strength 
of Lachane, a man remarkable for equal muscu¬ 
lar vigor, courage and adroitness? Captain Al¬ 
bert felt that he had met his fate. He shrunk 
back, and sent up a feeble cry for his satellite, 
Renaud. 

“ You cry in vain!” cried the Avenger. 44 Re- 
naude, that miserable villain,—that creature of 
thy crime, has now quite as much need of thee 
*s thou of him. Hark! hear you not ? Even 
now they are dealing with him 1” 

And, sure enough, the scream of a man, suc¬ 
ceeded by the clash of weapons, was heard, at 
that moment, at a little distance. 

“Prepare! To your knees, tyrant. Make 
your peace with God!” 

But, though Albert had not strength enough 
for combat, he had for flight. He was slight of 
form, small, and tolerably swiff of foot. Sud¬ 
denly dashing the now useless firelock to the 
ground, he darted off with a degree of energy 
which it tasked all the efforts of the half-" 
8 


famished Lachane to overcome, and gamed the 
beach, within fifty yards of the boat, ere he was 
overtaken. Hearing the pursuer close behind 
him, he rushed into the sea;—Lachane followed 
him close, and, as the water rose to the neck of 
the fugitive, he turned in supplication, only to 
receive the stroke. The steel entered his neck 
and he fell forward upon the slayer. Lachane 
flung him off from the weapon; and, losing his 
footing, the wounded man sunk irretrievably 
beneath the waters. 

44 Guernache! my friend! I have avenged 
thee!” 

Such was the exclamation of Lachane, as, 
with something of Roman fervor, he raised the 
bloody point of his sword to Heaven. 

The sequel of this narration may be told 
almost in the very words of history. 44 When 
they were come home againe, they assembled 
themselves together to choose one to be Gov¬ 
ernor over them.” The choice fell upon Nicholas 
Barre— 44 one which knewe so well to quite him¬ 
self© of his charge, that all rancour and dissen- 
tion ceased among them, and they lived peaceably 
one with another.” But though harmony was 
restored, they had lost hope. The supplies 
which had been promised them from France, 
had never been sent. The unhappy civil wars 
in that country, had been resumed, under the 
auspices of that incarnate mischief, Catharine 
of Medicis, the Queen Mother—and Coligny, the 
father of the Colony, had enough to do in fight¬ 
ing the battles of the Huguenots at home, to 
spare either means or men for the benefit of the 
little settlement at La Carolina. The Colonists 
had nearly exhausted the resources in 44 mil and 
beans,” of the poor savages by whom they were 
surrounded; and in utter despair of aid from 
France, believing themselves to have been wholly 
abandoned, they began to build 44 a smal pin- 
uesse,” in which to regain—however faint the 
hope,—the shores of that well beloved region. 
44 And though there were no man among them,” 
—says the chronicle,— 44 that had any skill, not¬ 
withstanding, necessitie, which is the maistresse 
of all sciences, taught them the way to build it.” 
But how were they to provide the sails, the 
tackle and the cordage ? When most con¬ 
founded with this question, they were succored 
by the help of Providence. Hear the chronicle. 
44 Having no meanes to recover these things, 
they were in worse case than at the first, and 
almost ready to fall into despayre. But that 
good God which never forsaketh the afflicted, 
did succour them in their necessitie.” Two of 


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66 


THE ROMANCE OF CAROLINA. 


the neighboring Cassiques, Andusta and Maccou, 
visit them “ as they were in these perplexities,” 
—“ whom our Frenchmen went forth to meete 
with all, and shewed the King m what neede of 
cordage they stood: who promised them to 
returne within two dayes, and to bring so much 
as should suffice to furnish the pinnesse with 
tackling.—After their departure, our men sought 
all meanes to recover roscn in the woode9, 
wherein they cut the pine trees round about, 
out of which they drew sufficient reasonable 
quantitie to bray the vessel. Also, they gathered 
a kind of mosse which groweth on the trees of 
this countrie, to serve to calke the same withall. 
There now wanted nothing but sayles, which 
they made of their owne shirtes and of their 
sheete9.” Thus provided, our adventurers, 
having given to their Indian friends all the 
goods and chattels which they could not take 
away, leaving them “ with all the contentation of 
the worlde,” “used so speedie diligence,” that 
they were soon ready for departure. “In the 
meane season the wind come so fit for their 
purpose, that it seemed to invite them to put to 
the sea.—Being drunken with the too excessive 
joy, which they had conceived for their returning 
into France, or rather deprived of all freight and 
consideration, without regarding the inconstancie 
of the winds, which change in a moment, they 
put themselves to sea, and with so slender 
victuals that the end of their enterprise became 
unluckly and unfortunate. For after they had 
sayled the third part of their way, they were sur¬ 
prised with calmes, which did so much hinder 
them, that in three weekes they sayled not above 
five-and-twentie leagues. During this time, their 
victuals consumed, and became so short, that 
every man was constrained to eate not past 
twelve graines of mill by the day, which may be 
in value as much as twelve peason. Yea, and 
this felicitie lasted not long: for their victuals 
failed them altogether at once : and they had 
nothing for their more assured refuge but their 
shooes and leather jerkins which they did eate. 
Touching their beverage, some of them dranke 
the sea-water; and they remained in such des¬ 
perate necessitie a very long space, during the 
which part of them died for hunger. Besides 
this extreme famine, which did so grievously 
oppresse them,—they were constrained to cast 
the water continually out, that on all sides 
entered into their Barke. And every day they 
fared worse and worse : for after they had eaten 
up their shooes and their leather jerkins, there 
arose so boystrous a winde, and so contrary to 
their course, that in the turning of a hande, the 


waves filled their vessell halfe full of water, and 
brused it upon the one side. Being now more 
out of hope than ever to escape out of this 
extreme peril, they cared not for casting out of 
the water which now was almost ready to drown 
them. And as men resolved to die, every one 
fell downe backwarde, and gave themselves over 
altogether unto the will of the waves.” It was 
in this moment of extreme despondency and 
peril, that Lachane once more came to their 
relief. He cheered them up with various assu¬ 
rances, and words of encouragement. He told 
them “how little way they had to sayle, assuring 
them, that if the winde held they should see land 
within three dayes.”—“ At worst,” said he, “we 
can but die when we can do no better. But we 
can put off that necessity some time longer,—it 
will be always soon enough when it does come.” 

Thus speaking, the brave fellow set them the 
example, by beginning to cast out the water in 
which they sat and lay. They plucked up heart 
as they beheld him, and joined in the work with 
new vigor, and with the elastic spirit of French- 
men. But when three days went by, and still 
their eyes were uncheered by the sight of the 
promised land—when they had consumed every 
remnant shoe and jerkin, and knew not now what 
to consume—they turned their eyes, in bitter 
reproach upon him who had encouraged them 
to live. 

“ Mes Braves /” said the noble fellow—“ you 
hunger,—you starve—you will perish, unless you 
can get some food! I see it in your eyes. They 
have no lustre, and the courage seems to have 
gone out from your hearts. You must not die. 
You must not lose your courage. You shall 
take life and courage out of my heart. You 
shall feed upon it—you shall drink the blood of 
a brave man, and live for your country. Better 
that one should die than all of you should perish. 
I will die for you. What! you shake your heads 
—you would not have it so—but so it shall be. 
You have loved me—La Chere loves you in 
return. You shall remember him hereafter— 
you bless his memory. I fear not death. Strike 
—my heart is open. I am ready !” 

But, though the famished wretches looked 
with yearning eyes upon the white breast of the 
victim, they yet shrunk with honor from the pro¬ 
posed sacrifice. 

“ Ah!” said he, reproachfully—* 4 you fear— 
you would not that I should die so—you know 
me not. You know not how it will gladden my 
heart to feel and know that I shall give life to 
yours. Here, Lafourche, Genet,—you are by 
me— you are the feeblest. When I strike, put 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


67 


your mouths to the wound,—drink freely—audit Original. 

let the rest drink after you. There .'—and | SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM 

there LONDON— Number iv. 

With each of these last words, the brave fellow _ 

—thence called Lachane, the Deliverer,—struck by mjis. e. r. steele. 


two fatal blows—one upon his heart, and one 
upon his throat. He leaned back between the 
men, and the famished persons whom he had 
particularly addressed, instantly sprang like 
thirsty tigers and fastened their lips upon the 
teeming wounds. The victim, smiling and | 
conscious to the last, at length sunk into the 
sacred slumber. 

The survivors were thus saved. Ere the last j 
morsel of the victim was consumed, they had 
a sight of land, “ whereof they were so exceeding 
glad, that the pleasure caused them to remaine a 
long time as men without sence : whereby they 
let the pinnesse dote this and that way without I 
holding any right way or course. But a small 
English barque boarded the vessell, in the which 
there wa9 a Frenchman, which had H>een in the 
first voyage into Florida, who easily knew them, 
and spake unto them, and afterwarde gave them 
meate and drinke. Incontinently they recovered 
their naturall courages, and declared unto him at 
large all their navigation.” 

Thus ended the first attempt of the French 
Huguenots to found a colony in Carolina. Their t 
subsequent attempts, distinguished by even supe- j 
rior calamities, will form the subject of future I 
papers. j 

========== j 

Original. | 

TO A YOUNG WIDOW. 

BY THE LATE SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

Why waste thy fruitless tears on clay, ! 

When spirit claims affection 7 ! 

Why fifive to prief each passing day, 

And droop in such dejection 7 

Why suffer unavailing sigli 9 
To chill that lovely bosom 7 

You read the hopes which light my eyes, 

My wishes—yet refuse 'em ! 

The living have some claims on thee; 

The dead arc past thy blessing; 

Then turn those witching eyes on me, 

An answering flame expressing. 

*Twas on thy sighs, thy tears of woo, 

Thy ceaseless grief, I reckon’d; 

For she who lov’d one husband so, 

Knows how to bless the second. 


|| VICTORIA IN HER PARLIAMENT. 

| Having passed my days in the quietness of 
I 1 republican simplicity, I bad a great desire while 
|| visiting England, to be present at a royal pageant. 
I was told it exceeded every thing in Europe of 
the kind; and came little short of Eastern mag- 
; nificence. The most splendid thing, short of a 
| coronation, my friends assured me, was the cere- 
I mony of the Sovereign going in state to prorogue 
J Parliament. Accordingly, when the day arrived, 
j we drove to the Palace-yard, which is in front of 
| Westminster Hall, where we could obtain a fine 
| view of the pageant, and afterwards enter the 
i house of Parliament. The Queen was to pass 
from Buckingham palace, her residence, through 
| Green Park, and out the gate of the Horse 
I Guards, into Parliament street, and thence to 
the Hall. Along thb distance, of a mile and a 
j a half, on each side were stationed a dense mass 
| of people in the houses, in carriages, on foot, or 
on chairs, for which they pay a sixpence or 
| shilling. As we arrived early to obtain a good 
i view, we were obliged to wait some time, and 
amuse ourselves with looking at the people 
| around us. They were of all sorts; some in 
rag9 and some in Parisian fashions. In the 
centre of the street, police-men were passing up 
and down to keep the passage clear, and if an 
ambitious coachman pushed his horses too 
much forward, or the owner of a bench placed it 
j before others, they were immediately ordered 
back. The greatest order prevailed; and no 
noise, except the merry jokes which were 
passed from one to the other. There was 
i much conversation among the men of the 
I lower orders, who stood around, concerning 
| the Queen, and we noticed that no one said 
I any thing at all disrespectful regarding her. 

| The Queen seemed to be universally beloved by 
! every one whom I heard speak of her. Before 
us, were the Abbey grounds, against the railing 
, of which was wedged a mass of living beings, 
and behind these, arose glorious old Westminster 
I Abbey. We were rejoiced thus to be able to 
study all its beautiful proportions, and feast our 
j eyes upon its countless pinnacles, its graceful 
arches, sculptured saints, and its grand towers, 
which for hundreds of years, had looked down 
upon many a royal pageant, and whose walls 
contain the bones of those who figured therein 


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63 


SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON 


Beside us arose Westminster Hall, the palace ofi 
Rufus, with its mullioned windows and beautiful 
tracery. Carriages now began to arrive, con¬ 
taining nobles, citizens or foreigners, who were 
hurrying to their seats within the house of Par¬ 
liament, to witness the ceremony,—access being 
obtained by foreigners through tickets given by 
their ambassadors. We could not but admire j 
the beauty of these carriages; the fine horses, ! 
and rich trappings, and the neat attire of coachmen 
and footmen. The occupants however, obtained 
most of our admiration ; for they were the peer¬ 
esses and nobles of England, in their state attire. 
Sometimes a single officer would pass in his 
private cab, with his little page behind, wearing a 
hat with the rim tied up with black cords attached 
to a cockade—the usual attire of an officer’s 
tiger. Suddenly the deep boom of the Tower 
guns was heard, and the old bells of the ancient 
Abbey burst forth in so solemn and melodious a 
chime, as must, I thought, have brought tears 
from the very stones around us. This was a 
signal that she for whom all eyes were eagerly 
watching, the fairest and highest of England’s 
slaughters,—before whom the power and the 
pride of its proud nobles must bow—was now to 
glad the eyes of her happy people with her royal 
beauty. In plain terms, the Queen had left her 
palace, and was approaching. But who can be 
prosaic with grand Westminster Abbey before 
one, and a glorious pageant passing, with the 
sons of historic worthies, and the picturesque 
costumes of other days, while a bright sun was 
adding its brilliancy to the picture ? Now, 
passing before us, we saw the gorgeous 
equipages and trains of the chivalry of high- 
boni beauty of England, and of the foreign am¬ 
bassadors. In building of carriages, and every 
appointment of an equipage, we know the 
English excel. Here then, we saw them in 
their greatest perfection. The carriages were 
adorned with chased silver, and blazoned with 
heraldrie devices,—some of them richly carved, 
gilded, and painted. The coachman,—who with 
the footmen behind, is clad in some fanciful livery 
of gay colored velvet or cloth, covered with gold 
laee or fringe,—sits on a high and wide seat 
covered with velvet hangings, on each side of 
which is a crest in gold or silver. Cocked hats 
with feathers or gold fringe, are worn by the 
servants; and under that of the coachman is a 
huge curled wig. Small-clothes of red or green 
or yellow plush, with silk stockings and buckled, 
and immense queue, complete their attire. Those 
of the ambassador’s suit, and those of foreign 
princnsb wore the costume of their nation. That of 


the suit of Prince Esterhazy was a Hungarian 
jacket and cap, while the Turkish or Persian 
wore their turbans and crescent. Those of the 
American embassy were plain but rich, and 
much more becoming a republican than if he 
had indulged in every costly device. The 
attendants of the clergy were in plain suits of 
j dark purple, with tassels and tags of the same 
! color, and upon the purple hammercloth of the 
carriages a silver mitre or other crest. 

Among the ladies, were some of great beauty. 
Jn general their forms are fuller than those of 
our country, and there is a brilliancy about their 
countenances, and a lofty bearing, which is in 
keeping with their estate. Each wore the 
court-dress; which consisted of a coronet or 
bandeau of diamonds, surmounted by a plume of 
soft white ostnch feathers, waving gracefully 
upon one side, while a lappet of white lace was 
wreathed around the back of the head, and feH 
| down upon the shoulders. Nothing could be 
more graceful and stately. The remainder of 
their dress was according to the fancy of the 
wearer in material—a long train, however, being 
! indispensable. The women of England, with 
their plump, stately forms, and their dazzling 
complexions, are the perfection of physical 
beauty. There may be more gentle loveliness 
in other lands, but if I were to form a regal 
court, I would choose the peeresses of England, 
i The men were in court-costume, or in uniforms 
i of scarlet yellow and gold. Among them was 
the gentlemanly-looking Sir Robert Peel,—the 
princely Duke of Devonshire, he of the sad 
romarftic history—prelates and nobles and 
knights, and more famed than all, he of the 
i 44 hundred fights,” his grace the Duke of Wel¬ 
lington. When he appeared, the crowd burst 
into loud huzzas—rushed up to the carriage and 
in spite of the police, clung upon it, and climbed 
up to see the nation’s pet, the hero of England. 
He gave no greeting in return, but leant back in 
the carriage with his arms folded. Not that he 
was indifferent to this homage, but in the pre¬ 
sence of the Sovereign, it would be unseemly for 
j him to encourage such adulation. And now the 
show becomes still more grand and rich. The 
portly Duke of Cambridge with his wife and the 
beautiful young Princess Augusta—and the 
Duchess of Kent, the Queen’s mother. This 
I lady possesses* a noble face and figure—her 
equipage was superb, the six stout, heavy, 
Hanoverian horses which drew her looking as 
sleek and highly polished as if carved of black 
marble. But, hark ! a trumpet—the Queen of 
all this magnificence approaches. The royal 


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Iiorse-guards which precede and surround the female through whose veins runs the blood of 
Sovereign, are passing before us upon their the Saxon Kings, the Plantagenets, the Tudors 
shining black war-horses. Their breast-plates and the Stuarts!—whose wealth is countless,— 
and plumed helmets are glittering in the sun, whose realms are measureless, and at whose feet 
and their short scarlet mantles are flowing kneel many nations. Even as a republican, I 
around them. Next comes the carriage or could admire it. In our own land, it is true I 
rather triumphal car, which bears the Sove- do not wish to see it, but here, it is consistent 
reign. It is very large, and every part carved and proper. It is folly to call crowns and scep- 
and gilded. The golden pillars lean out a little, tres merely baubles, and speak of them with con- 
so as to support a top larger than the bottom of tempt. They are the mighty engines with which 
the car, which runs up something in the form of a this country is governed, and by which she has 
crown, surmounted with gilded plumes and other acquired the fame now crowning her. He is a 
ornaments. Neptune’s tridents and dolphins 
large as life support this fanciful but magnificent 
state-carriage. Eight cream-colored Arabian 
horses, perfect in form, are attached to it, tempts at show or pageantry are laughed down, 
almost covered with trappings and head-gear. It is different here; the English love it; they 
and fringes and tassels of scarlet and gold, which | are proud of their Queen when she rides forth in 
awing and dangle around them as they pass along, state, surrounded by her nobles, and go home 
Bands of scarlet cross their sides, richly embroi- from such a scene as this, with any lurking dis- 
dered with gold. She, for whom all this gran- satisfaction which they may have harbored, dis- 
deur is exhibited, sits on the back seat of the persed by the contemplation of their country’s 
carriage. She wears a crown of diamonds—a magnificence. Upon another account, also, we 
while satin dress, and a stomacher, a mass of gazed with a curious interest on Victoria. In 
jewelry ; and the blue ribbon of the order of the her we behold a being at the height of earthly 
garter is across her shoulder. Beside her sits grandeur and earthly happiness. These two are 
her husband, in scarlet and gold uniform of a seldom united,—indeed we may say have never 
Marshal. In front is the Duchess of Buc- been. No monarch, not even Solomon in all his 
cleugb, mistress of the robes, and Lady Jersey, glory, could say, as Victoria said to her assem- 
lady-in-waiting. bled parliament,—“ My domestic happiness is 

The Queen returned the greeting of her peo- complete.” Her busbaud is the chosen of her 
pie with a gentle smile and dignified bend of her heart, her early playmate and friend. She pos- 
fair jewelled head. Victoria, without being sesses an heir to her throne, two young daugh- 
called beautiful, has a very handsome and inte- ters, to whose caresses she can retreat from the 
resting countenance. Her face is oval shaped pressure of business,—and a mother and beloved 
and full, her eyes large, and she has the promi- relations, whose society and counsels are dear to 
nent but well-formed nose of her Brunswick her. The pure tone of her court elicits the 
ancestors. Above a high, fair forehead, her admiration of all, for there all the duties of soci- 
Iight hair was smoothly parted, over which, as I ety are enforced, and the Sabbath day is honored. 

Victoria possesses that which seldom falls to the 
lot of Queens,—much common sense,—and one 
never sees her enforcing any great stretch of 
power, or indulging in whims, like Elizabeth 
with her 4 fancy free ’ virginity. My compan¬ 
ion’s loyalty was not dimmed by a residence 
across the Atlantic, and he greeted his Queen 
with cheers. Can it be wondered at that I, also, 
republican as I am, caught the enthusiasm of 
the scene, and gave her my homage ? But now 
the crowd has passed, and we follow them into 
Westminster Hall. We passed up the stone 
stair-case, and found the lobbies through which 
the Queen was to pass, arranged with benches 
nearly to the ceiling, covered with scarlet cloth, 
and crowded with ladies in full dress. We then 
entered the house of Lords. This is a large 


said, she wore her jewelled coronet. We had 
seen Victoria in many attires,—and had particu¬ 
larly admired her, while in a riding-dress, she 
was threading the forest paths of Windsor,—and 
in her simple, matronly dress at church,—but in 
her carriage of state, surrounded by her subjects 
in regal dress, she wore a nobler expression, and 
looked the Queen of the proud realm she 
governed. Prince Albert is much taller than his 
wife, and is a handsome young man, with a very 
amiable expression of countenance. He seems 
to be universally liked. The triumphal car of 
beauty passed on, surrounded by guaids and 
yeomen,—walking on each side,—the last, in the 
picturesque scarlet tunic and dress of the days of 
Henry VIII. I gazed with the greatest curiosity 
upon this imposing spectacle, and the exalted 


shallow reasoner who imagines every country 
must be governed alike. In our land, a crown 
and court never could be tolerated, and all at- 


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70 


THE OLD MANSION 


hall, having scarlet-covered seats around the 
walls, and across the door, facing the throne, 
upon which were seated the peeresses and prin¬ 
ces of England and foreign embassadors in their 
grand state robes,—a dazzling scene indeed ! 
Above, the gallery was crowded with those, who 
with the persons we had seen in the lobbies, had 
obtained tickets from the Lord Chamberlain or 
the Ambassadors. In front rose a circular plat¬ 
form surrounded by steps,—upon this on golden 
chairs, with scarlet satin cushions, sat the royal 
family. Upon the platform were two chairs of 
the same material. One of them is an arm-chair 
larger than the rest, and more elaborately carved 
and gilded ; this is the throne. Beside it stands 
a small chair, upon whose scarlet back is embroi¬ 
dered in gold, the three feathers of the little 
Prince of Wales. In front of these thrones, 
with Albert at her left hand, Victoria stood to 
read her address to Parliament. When she 
arrived at the House, she had retired to a dres¬ 
sing-room, where she was clad with the Royal 
robes, and she looked indeed a Queen with the 
Royal mantle of scarlet velvet, lined with crim¬ 
son, which lay in heavy folds around her, and 
with the crown of Britain’s Sovereign upon her 
head. To use the pretty lines of Mrs. Sigour¬ 
ney 

“ la her fair hand* *hfc held 
A scroll, and with a cleur mid silver toue 
Of wondrous melody, descanted free 
Of foreign climes, where Albion’s ships had borne 
Their thunders, and of those who dwelt st peucc 
In prosperous commerce, and of some who frowned 
In lateut unger murmuring notes of war, 

Until the British Liou cleared his brow 
To meditate betweeu them, with a branch 
Of olive in his paw. 


Original. 

SONNET. — YOUTH. 

BY MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 


The first breeze of the bland south-we9t 
In the islands of the sea, 

The earliest ripple on the breast 
Of the waters in their glee; 

The prayers of children as they float 
From hearts that know not care, 

The meadow-lark’s high matin-note 
Clear on the morning air; 

The hope that in the young heart swells 
At Love’s betrothing word, 

The chime of holy Sabbath bells 
Through rural valley poured:— 
These are die types—in guise of truth— 
Of Life’s blest season, early Youth! 


Original. 

THE OLD MANSION. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LAriTTE," M KYD,”AHO THE “QUADROOIf.” 


The following simple and artlessly told Ballad Is from the 
pen of u youug lady scarcely seventeen, who has never “ap¬ 
peared in print." Her mind is of the highest order, and her 
heart is its fit companion. Her love of uuture and of the beau¬ 
tiful is deep and pure, and from it she has the rare faculty of 
extracting whatever is good, whatever is holy. Her piety is of 
character rather than of profession—the religion of genius, 
which finds and loves God every where ! She has written much 
more, and the opening of the diary of her young spirit to the 
world’s eye,—of the calendar of her heart’s sweetest hours,-— 
would be conferring upon it a rare fuvor. A feature of this 
young person's mind is, its originality. She thinks for herself. 
Her thoughts are not the answers of other persons. At the ago 
of ten, an affection of the vision shut her out, until within a few 
weeks past, altogether from book*! For years she has read 
nothing, though many have esteemed it a privilege to read to 
her, and listen to her striking unaffected comments upon the 
writer’s thoughts. This affliction, which it would have been 
to ordinary minds, proved to her’s a blessing. She learned to 
find thoughts in her own soul end to read therein spiritual 
pages of her own mental and imaginative creation. Her mind 
thus fed with thought alone, grew vigorous within itself, and 
was ever lovely and fresh. It was mislrd by no error of book*, 
untarnished by any immorality of the world ; oil her conversa¬ 
tion is pure, rational, inartificial. 8he has the naturalness of 
a lovely child of ten, with the mind and intellectual strength 
of womanhood. She is a child ofgeniu* and of truth ; a rare and 
beauteous field-flower, lost and unappreciated in the garish, 
forced splendor of the world’s liol-housc plants, among which 
she hath appeared in the sweet humility of truth and nature. 
I offer you this little Ballad for publication, she neither ^iviug 
nor withholding her consent, but passively committing it into 
my bauds. To yours I entrust the generous deposit# ; feeling 
that you will appreciate its truthfulness and quiet beauty, ft 
is a faithful Tale. All its descriptions are from life. Tho 
“ Happy Valley,” is ray favorite evening walk. The Old Man¬ 
sion bar; been lutrly consumed hy fire; but all else remains ae 
in the time of the Bsllwd. Yours with esteem, J. H. u 

I. 

There stood a stately mansion old 
On brow of sloping hill; 

There many a joyous day I’ve passed 
And mem’ry loves it still. 


’Tvvas ’neath the shade of lofty elms 
And ever green dark pine, 

Where robins sang with notes so sweet 
In spring and summer time. 


There dwelt my aged ancestor 
With partner of hi9 years ; 
They’d travell’d long together here 
In sunshine and in tears. 


IV. 

Their spring-time hopes were faded, 
And winter days came round, 

Yet sunny ties of kindred, 

Their hearts to eatth still bound. 


v. 

My grandma’s eyes were soft and blue, 
And tenderly she smiled, 

She ne’er thought ill of any one, 

Her words were always mild. 


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71 


VI. 

I never shall forget her voice, 

The tones of her 44 Good even 

Nothing we ever asked her for 
But what was kindly given. 

VII. 

My proud pa’ often told us tales, 

All of the olden time; 

And of the wars for liberty 

He fought in 44 auld lang syne.'* 

VIII. 

He gave us pretty picture-books 
On happy New Year’s day; 

And poor who hither came for aid 
Ne’er empty went away. 

IX. 

Grandma’ would tell us of the train. 
The beaver hat and plume, 

And all the fashion of the dress 
She wore in girlhood’s bloom. 

X. 

She always kept some plums or cake 
In cupboard saved away, 

To give 4 ‘the children” every time 
They came with her to stay. 


XI. 

And we assembled every year 
In that wide ancient hall, 

To keep the old 44 Election-day,” 

Parents and children all. 

XII. 

Then rang the walls with merriment, 
With laughter and with glee; 

Those sounds come o'er my mem’ry now, 
And sadly seem to me. 

XIII. 

Oh, there were entries long and dark, 
Clock-room and pantry too; 

And a hole was cut in the cellars!oor 
Where fav’rite cat went through. 


xrv. 

Grandma 1 wore parted on her brow, 
Her own soft, silvery hair, 

And, scissors bright at her girdle hung; 
E’er knitting her fingers were. 


XV. 

A buck-horn head had grandpa’s cane, 
His hat was wide of brim; 

His silver snuff-box was a gift 
From Washington to him. 


XVI. 

Up in the garret long and low, 

Was spinnet and spinning wheel; 

For grandmama, tho* lady bred, 

Could deftly spin a reel. 

XVII. 

Then at foot of the kitchen stairs. 

There stood a 44 settle” low; 

And cheerily the large fire blazed 
With log and fore-stick too. 

xvm. 

With wheels and bucket in the porch 
There was a deep old well: 

We thought as in its depths we gazed 
A fair}* there might dwell. 

XIX. 

And there were haunts so old and dark 
We hardly dared to stay,— 

Where bones and curious things were kept 
And mouldering rubbish lay. 


XX. 

We wandered in the orchard green, 
Where large red apples grew, 

And damsons puqile, moose-plums sweet, 
Of varied size and hue. 

XXI. 

We shook the branches merrily, 

And strewed them on the ground; 

Such mellow and delicious fruit. 

Could no where else be found. 


XXII. 

Down in the 44 Happy Valley” near, 

A streamlet wandered by; 

We often crossed its bridge, to climb 
For wild choke-cherries high. 

XXIII. 

We ran, too, in the long, straight mall, 
Bordered with poplar trees, 

Mingled with rose and currant bush, 
Lilacs and gooseberries. 


XXIV. 

We sported in the garden aisles, 
And sat in the arbors old, 
Whose many fancied tales of love 
Then laughingly we told. 


XXV. 

There grew the honied columbines, 
And fragrant fleur-de-lis; 

And grandma’s yellow mari-golds, 
And full-blown peony. 


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RESOLVES AND RESULTS. 


XXVJ. 

And there with many a frolic wild, 

We fled the hornet's rage; 

And grandma* smiled, tho’ footsteps marred 
Her much-prized bed of sage. 

XXVII. 

Her fav’rite pinks and southernwood, 

With fragrance filled the air;— 

The summer days were always warm, 

And every spot seemed fair. 

XXVIII. 

The violets were very blue, 

The grass was tall and green; 

Such colors in my womanhood, 

I never since have seen! 

XXIX. 

The cows from their rich pastures came 
Just at the sunset glow; 

And laughing maids came out to milk, 

And sat on cricket low. 

XXX. 

'Tis the same sun in the sky, I ween,— 

Ah, now it seems more cold; 

And my cousin’s happy tones I miss 
That fell in the arbors old. 

XXXI. 

That cherished place is still most fair, 
There blooms the peony,— 

He walks not o’er his broad lands now, 
NorsAt her flowers to see! 

XXXII. 

Alas, I never shall forget 
When cold I saw her lay; 

And full of years, and goodness, too, 

They bore grandma’ away. 

XXXIII. 

Eight times as wont the summer bloomed, 
Eight times tho autumn fell, 

And he, the lonely grey-haired man, 

Was borne by her to dwell. 

XXXIV. 

The flame broke wild and brightly forth, 
One Sabbath evening still !— 

In ruins fell that mansion old 
On brow of sloping hill. 


Original. 

RESOLVES AND RESULTS; 

OR, THE GOVERNMENT OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 

BT MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 

“ With our own hands we hew out rugged paths. 

And then accuse our fate of cruelty." 

You are very proud, Lionel.” 

“ I am so, Fanny : pride is as inherent in my 
nature as aflfection, and I can truly say, in the 
words of Lovelace— 

" 1 could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor more." 

11 How much wrong men do in the name of 
honor!” 

“ But I am right, Fanny, in my present deter¬ 
mination. You are rich, in expectancy, at least, 
while I am penniless. Your father’s reluctant 
consent to our engagement was wrung from him 
by his love for you, and his dread of making you 
unhappy; but, even while according me the boon 
I sought, he hinted at conditions which were 
requisite to its full possession. I know his 
wishes ; he would have me pursuing some osten¬ 
sible business ere I wed his daughter; and as for 
myself, Fanny, dearly as I love you, I would re¬ 
nounce you for ever, ere I would allow the world 
to believe that your chief attraction for me had 
been your father’s riches.” 

“ Should we not be happier, Lionel, if we 
could forget what you call the world, and live 
only for those who love us ?” 

“Perhaps we should, but I cannot be indif¬ 
ferent to the opinion of those amid whom I must 
live and struggle. I have striven hard, Fanny, 
against my love for you—” 

“ Lionel!” 

“ I understand your reproachful tone, dearest; 
but I am uttering only the truth. I have tried 
not to love you, but the effort was vain. I was 
intoxicated with your loveliness, and even while 
I sought to break the chain that bound me, I 
only riveted its links more closely. I wooed you 
in a moment of madness,—I won you, my own 
sweet one, and tbe rich gift of your affection 
made me, for a time, forget my poverty. I 
scorned to steal such a priceless treasure from 
your father, and I therefore frankly confessed to 
him my hopes. You know how my candor was 
rewarded:—you know the obloquy which he 
heaped upon me; you know how the stigma of 
beggary was branded into my very soul;—you 
know too, how your father relented at the sight 
of your tears; and you can therefore fully un¬ 
derstand the feelings which have determined me 
to prove myself worthy of you even in the eyes 


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RESOLVES AND RESULTS'. 


73 


of the sordid and the mean. Be faithful to me 
for three short years, dear Fanny, and then we 
may be happy.” 

“ Have you really decided to go to New 
Orleans, Lionel.” 

“ I have; my arrangements are already com¬ 
pleted, and a fair prospect of success is opened 
before me. I shall live upon hope and memory 
until I return to claim my gentle bride.” 

Lionel Grey had drawn his own character in 
the words which he had just uttered to his beau¬ 
tiful mistress. Proud, impetuous and impulsive, 
he had loved Fanny Lee, in despite of, it may 
be because of, his own resolution to avoid her. 
She was beautiful, gifted, highly educated, and 
most winning in her womanliness, while her 
father’s well-known wealth gave weight to her 
other attractions in the opinion of many of her 
adrairera. She had early looked with favor 
upon Lionel, and perhaps the evident struggle 
which was going on in his heart,—the inconsis¬ 
tency of a love which was ever contending with 
his pride—gave a new interest to his many agreea¬ 
ble qualities. They had gone through the whole 
round of tender experiences; they had flirted 
and quarrelled, they had sentimentalized and 
philosophized, (lovers always talk a deal of pseudo 
philosophy,) they had enjoyed morning rides and 
moonlight walks, they had mingled in the same 
dance, and read from the same volume, yet the 
name of Love had never been uttered by either. 
But the impetuous temper of Lionel conquered 
his high resolves. Jealousy was stronger than 
pride, and in a paroxysm of doubt, he revealed 
the full extent of his affection. For a time the 
lovers were perfectly happy, but “ Consideration 
came ” not exactly “ like an angel,” and Lionel 
was compelled to acknowledge that he had actu¬ 
ally wooed and won an heiress* Too honorable 
in his feelings to think of a clandestine attach¬ 
ment, he avowed himself to the father of his 
adored Fanny, and the result was most painful 
and mortifying to his pride. Mr. Lee was, at 
first, most indignant, and although his paternal 
tenderness afterwards got the better of his anger, 
yet Lionel was left in no doubt of the old man’s 
secret discontent at his daughter’s choice. Every 
haughty feeling in Lionel’s bosom was aroused 
at the idea of being thus grudgingly admitted 
into a family which possessed no superiority over 
himself save that of wealth, and therefore it was 
that in the very moment of successful love, he 
nerved himself to the duty of separation. 

Lionel Grey went to that Eldorado of the 
south, the emporium of cotton bags and yellow 
9 


fever, and by the assistance of friends, soon found 
himself established in a promising business. 
When a man has one fixed and steady aim in 
life, and pursues it with earnestness and dili¬ 
gence, he rarely fails of success, sooner or later. 
As the time approached which Lionel had fixed 
as the limit of his stay, he found himself so in¬ 
volved in the toils of a prosperous business, that 
his absence seemed like a perfectly suicidal 
measure. He accordingly wrote to Fanny, and 
implored her to let him live on hope for one 
more year, when he would no longer delay his 
return. Gifted with a true woman’s spirit, Fanny 
responded in words of tenderness and patient love, 
but in her secret heart she felt how different was 
the affection of man from the unselfish, unexact¬ 
ing feeling which inspire a woman’s best resolves* 
At the expiration of the allotted three years, 
Lionel was prosperous and full of hope, but ere 
the fourth had passed away, there occurred one 
of those sudden storms which sometimes sweep 
over the ocean of commerce, wrecking the no¬ 
blest barks as utterly as the tiny skiff. A single 
day sufficed to destroy the labor of years,—a 
single day made Lionel Grey a beggar. 

Anxiety of mind now aided the slow but sure 
inroads which the climate had made upon his 
health, and in the midst of his misfortunes, he 
was prostrated by a violent attack of fever. For 
days he was insensible, and only the faintest 
hopes were entertained of his recovery, but he 
did recover to find himself the guest of a hospi¬ 
table old gentleman who had been his father’s 
friend, and to learn that his nurse had been the 
beautiful ward of his kind host. Ellen F ■■ ■ * 

was young, lovely and susceptible ; she had felt 
or fancied a partiality for Lionel from her first 
acquaintance with him, and when she heard of 
his illness, she had urged her guardian to bring 
him to the shelter of his roof, while with the 
wilfulness of a petted but generous child, she 
determined to minister to his wants. It was not 
in the nature of man to be indifferent to the 
guileless tenderness of the gentle orphan girl, 
and Lionel was conscious that a feeling “too 
warm for friendship, though too cold for love,” 
was growing up in his heart towards her. It was at 
this time—when be was yet scarcely convalescent, 
that a letter from Fanny was put into his hands. 
It came to him like a thunder-stroke, for it con¬ 
tained a cold, calm, decided renunciation of him. 

“ You cannot complain of my determination,” 
she wrote ; “ the change which has occurred in 
our prospects, will account for my conduct; 
you are now free,—free from even the shadow 
of a tie. I knew not that my pride was equal to 


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74 


RESOLVES AMD RESULTS. 


your own, until the hour of trial showed me the 
secrets of my own heart.” 

Lionel pondered deeply on these words,—there 
was a mystery in them which he could only solve 
by believing that Fanny had heard of ha di-suc¬ 
cess, and had wearied of her early attachment. 
His anguish of mind was only calmed by an 
indignant sense of wrong, and his pride was sum¬ 
moned to the solace of his wounded affection. 
The consequence of such a combination of cir¬ 
cumstances may be- readily imagined. Fanny 
had abandoned him in his misfortunes, while the 
gentle Ellen, the child of wealth and luxury, 
devoted herself most tenderly to his comfort. 
• Full many a heart is caught in the rebound.* 
In one month,—‘one little month,* after the 
receipt of this most singular letter, Lionel Grey 

was the husband of the beautiful Ellen F— - , 

and by advice of his physician, sailed with his 
fair bride to the genial climate of Italy. 

Mrs. Grey had inherited her mother's fragile 
health along with her wealth and her beauty. 
Nothing could be lovelier than her petite figure, 
her sweet, girlish face, overhung by the most 
luxuriant and rebellious of blonde tresses, her 
delicate, fairy-like hands and feet, and the sort of 
willowy grace which pervaded her whole ap¬ 
pearance. But no trace of color ever visited her 
smooth cheek, and but for the rich, coral hue of 
her soft lips, she might have seemed like one 
whom death had already marked for his own. 
She was one of those characterless women, who, 
like mirrors, reflect passing objects, but only 
retain the image of that which is placed perpetu¬ 
ally before them. She was a creature of habi¬ 
tudes, and nothing had ever disturbed the perfect 
quiescence of her feelings, until her heart had 
awakened into something like a passion for Lio¬ 
nel Grey. She had been stirred into active life 
by the doubt which hung around her affection, 
but now that she was in possession of the object 
of her wishes, she gladly returned to her former 
tranquillity and peace. No jealous fears, no dis¬ 
trust of herself, or of her husband, ever entered 
her mind. She loved him, she was his honored 
and cherished wife, and she was therefore per¬ 
fectly happy. 

Lionel, on his part, had striven to banish from 
his memory all that could throw the shadow of 
wrong upon his gentle wife. Fanny’s letters,— 
the flower from her hair,—the glove from her 
hand,—all the love-gifts which are so precious 
because identified with personal recollections of 
the beloved one,—even the braid of raven hair 
which had lain so long next his heart,—were 
destroyed ere he married. A sense of duty. 


stronger and sterner thau even the indignation 
of outraged affection, determined him to cherish 
not a single reminiscence of the past; and by 
the very care which it cost him to forget, Lionel 
learned how fond and deep was his remembrance. 
The repose and quietude of his wife’s manner,— 
that calm, and, as it sometimes seemed to him, 
cold reliance upon his affection,—was the most 
trying of all things to his impulsive temper. She 
was full of gentleness and sweetness, but there 
were times when he would gladly have found her 
less passively tranquil. Wrapped in rich shawls, 
and reclining on a downy couch, she seemed to 
enjoy a sort of half dreamy life. She was happy 
if Lionel sat beside the silken cushions on which 
she leaned, and she seemed scarcely less happy 
if left to the quiet loneliness of her own chamber. 
She was as one who watches with half-closed 
eyes the gliding of some quiet stream, while she 
possessed not sufficient energy to fling even a 
flower upon its gentle current. 

With such a wife, so silent, so absti acted, so 
slumberous in her habits of thought, Lionel was 
not likely to find his heart fully occupied. She 
was like an amiable but petted child; so long as 
she was indulged and caressed, she was content. 
She was a moat loveable creature, but she could 
never inspire a deep, strong and abiding passion. 
Often when Lionel sate beside her, clasping the 
little white hand which lay like a snow-wreath in 
his, would memory conjure up before him the 
stately figure, the flashing eye, the impressive 
gesture, the heart-echoing voice, of one whose 
beauty ever derived new power from the intense 
and vivid life which characterized her loveliness. 
Ellen was the gentle child of Lionel’s later affec¬ 
tions, but he felt that she could never be the 
priestess in the inner chamber of his heart; and 
there were moments when he was most unuttera¬ 
bly wretched. 

An incident which occurred during his resi¬ 
dence in Florence, gave him fresh food for 
mournful thought. He was standing in the 
cool shadow of a projecting portico conversing 
with a lovely dark-eyed flower-girl who was 
binding a bunch of violets and rosebuds for him, 
when a carriage passed by. Darting from his 
side, the girl flew to the carriage-door and flung 
the bouquet into the lap of the lady, who with a 
sunny-faced child were its only occupants. The 
low, sweet voice in which the stranger uttered 
her thanks, thrilled the very soul of Lionel, and 
as the wind lifted the thick veil which shrouded 
her face, he beheld the pale but beautiful face of 
Fanny Lee. 

“ She is so pale, so very pale,” said the girl, 


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RESOLVES AND RE8ULT8. 


75 


a8 she retnroed, “ and she loves my flowers so 
dearly.” 

44 Do you know the lady ?” asked Lionel. 

44 Oh, no, she is a stranger; but she looks ill 
and, it seems to me, sorrowful.” 

In rain Lionel sought to learn something 
further of his faithless mistress. He met her no 
more, and his fancy enabled him to depict her as 
the wife and mother—perhaps ill—perhaps disap- J 
pointed in her trust, but certainly lost to him for 
ever. 

A second time did that image of past happiness 
appear before him. A year had elapsed, and 
Lionel was the father of a noble boy, but the 
invalid mother could not be persuaded that he 
had not inherited her delicacy of constitution; 
and, tortured by the fear that his blooming cheek 
and sparkling eye were but tokens of latent dis¬ 
ease, she insisted on taking up her abode in 
Paris, where the skill of French physicians might 
be exerted in behalf of her darling child. Lionel 
Grey was one day standing in the deep recess of 
a window, playfully tossing the lovely little 
creature towards his pretty and girlish-looking 
mother, when a pale and almost ghastly face 
suddenly looked out upon him, from a cabriolet, 
which some trifling obstruction in the street had 
detained for a moment before his hotel. It was 
a face not to be mistaken—the large full eye,— 
the curve of the sweet lips—the broad white 
brow ;—pale and faded as was the bright beauty 
of that countenance, it was still the image of her 
whom he had so loved. A second time he had 
' seen her, and a second time she had vanished like 
a spectre from his gaze. 

Years passed on, and the bitterness of Lionel’s 
feelings had been subdued by the kindly influence 
of time. He had lived to think calmly of past 
loves and by-gone hopes, habit had taught him 
to love the gentle creature who relied on him for 
happiness, and the instincts of an affectionate 
nature had made him almost worship his beau¬ 
tiful boy. But it seemed as if Providence had 
designed to surround him with blessings only 
until he should have learned that they were 
necessary to his happiness. A disease, which 
while it scarce stole the rose from the child’s 
cheek, yet tortured his frame with agony and 
contracted his graceful limbs until he was a 
helpless and unsightly cripple, sapped the 
springs of life. The fair boy died, but not until 
the sight of his bodily sufferings had wrung from 
the anguished father a prayer that he might be j 
released from the pangs which racked his feeble 
frame. His mother, always fragile as a delicate 
exotic, sunk beneath her grief, and in a few brief 


months, she was laid within the grave which held 
the ashes of her idolized child. Ten years from 
the time when he firet set foot in Europe, Lionel 
Grey was a lonely and desolate man. Wealth 
was his, for he was the sole heir to his wife’s fine 
fortune, but there was no human creature with 
whom he could claim kindred. He was alone- 
alone amid the appliances of luxury—alone amid 
spectres of past happiness—alone amid recollec¬ 
tions of by-gone joys and sorrows. 


“You must join us, Mr. Grey,” said Mrs. 
Lisbourne, “ we intend passing a few months in 
England, and shall then return to America. 
You are alone, and we shall be most happy to 
minister to your comfort during the journey.” 

“ Come, Lionel, I shall insist upon it,” said 
her husband, “ I havej not yet forgotten our 
college-days, and if you are less mindful of our 
former intimacy, it is quite time to renew it; so 
I will take no denial.” 

“I am so little fitted for society, my good 
friends, that I should be only a burden upon 
your party.” 

u We have no party, Mr. Grey; we left 
America on account of Mr. Lisbourne’s health, 
and ours has been only a family party. Our 
children and their governess are our only 
companions, now that my brother Fred has left 
us.” 

44 1 thought he was still with you.” 

“No,” said Mr. Lisbonrne, smiling, “he 
found the attractions of a certain lady quite too 
potent, and beat a retreat.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that Fred Tracy fell 
in love with your governess ?” 

“ Something very like it.” 

“ And so you sent him to Coventry, to save 
him from the arts of a designing woman ?” 

A flush crossed Mrs. Lisbourne’s round cheek 
as she replied ; 44 1 cannot allow such an asper¬ 
sion to rest on one who deserves nothing but 
good at my hands. Frederick has only himself 
to thank for his unlucky attachment and its 
disappointment.” 

44 The lady did not refuse him, surely ?” 

44 1 had rather not discuss the subject, Mr. 
Grey: Fred acted like a simpleton, and one 
does not like to talk of a brother’s follies. The 
lady has been a member of my family for the 
past five years, and during all our wanderings by 
sea and land, she has been to me like a friend 
and sister.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lisbourne; when 
you spoke of the eloquent Mr. Tracy’s attach¬ 
ment to a humble governess, I really thought 


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RESOLVES AND RESULTS. 


you were jesting with me. My idea of a travel¬ 
ling governess always shapes itself into the sem¬ 
blance of a thin stiff-looking woman, with high 
cheek-bones and a pinched, red nose, a sort of 
pedagogue in petticoats, who always smells of 
lavender-water and stale-cake.” 

“ By Jove ! you will change your ideas then, 
when you see our nonpareil of governesses,” 
exclaimed Mr. Lisbourne; “red nose, forsooth! 
Why, her features are as classical and almost as 
pale as those of the famed Venus of the Tribune. 
Beautiful, graceful, dignified, and as cold as ‘the 
icicle on Dian’s temple/ she is a woman whom 
every one must admire, but whom few would 
dare to love.” 

“You are enthusiastic, Lisbourne; perhaps it 
is fortunate for me that I am proof against her 
fascinations ; and that ‘ man delights not me, nor 
woman either.’ ” 

“ It is lucky for you, Lionel, for there is a 
romantic story connected with her, which would 
just suit your imaginative temper.” 

“ It must be something more than romantic to 
interest me now ; but pray, what is it ?” 

“Ask Mrs. Lisbourne; women know how to 
dress up such delicate dishes of gossip far better 
than we do.” 

“ Her story is a very simple one,” said Mrs. 
LUbourne; ** she was betrothed to a young 
man, whose name I have never learned; but he 
was poor and proud; he refused to become the 
penniless husband of an heiress, and therefore, 
after receiving her plighted faith, he went South 
to make a fortune. During his absence, the 
father of his ladye-love became engaged in some 
unfortunate mercantile transactions, and was 
reduced to bankruptcy. With pride equal to 
her lover’s, she now resolved to follow his 
example. She wrote to him, renouncing her 
engagement and freeing him from all ties. The 
gentleman was probably not sorry to be released, 
for he did not reply to the letter, and she some 
time after heard of his marriage. She sup¬ 
ported her father by her own exertions during 
the remainder of his life, and, at his death, by 
the recommendation of a friend, I received her 
into my family as governess to my children.” 

“Her name—her name?” gasped Lionel Grey, 
while his face grew white as ashes, and his lips 
quivered with emotion. 

“ Fanny Lee.” 

“ Good Heavens ! what a fool—what a mad¬ 
man I have been.” 

“ What a romantic affair this has been,” said 
Mrs* Lisbourne, when some months afterwards, 


she returned from witnessing the nuptials of 
Fanny Lee with her early lover. 

“ I was just thinking,” returned her husband, 
“ what a couple of fools they had been. Divest 
the circumstances of their fantastic coloring, and 
how do they appear ? Lionel Grey falls in love 
with a pretty girl, he engages her affections, 
obtains the consent of her rich old father, who 
ought to have been glad of such a son-in-law, 
aud then instead of marrying her, leaves her to 
loneliness of heart while he is gratifying his 
infernal pride in the search after fortune. 
Fanny Lee is patient and loving like a true 
woman, but no sooner does adversity overtake 
her, than she fancies she ought to imitate the 
mad folly of het lover, and accordingly relin¬ 
quishes all claim upon him in obedience to the 
dictates of an insane generosity. Lionel mis¬ 
takes her motive, and in a fit of pique he marries. 
Thus after all his magnanimous resolutions, he 
actually weds an heiress, without having the 
excuse of affection, and now the possession of 
her estate enables him to please himself in the 
choice of a second wife. While Fanny has 
been induced to forget all her foolish pride, and 
is now the dowerless bride of one who has reaped 
a golden harvest from the sod which covers a 
heart that loved him. Ten of the best years of 
their lives have been wasted,—their freshness of 
feeling is gone for ever,—they are grey in heart 
if not in head,—they have suffered tenfold more 
than they could have done from the mere frowns 
of fortune, and now, after all, they are precisely 
in the condition which they would have been had 
they married in their first glad youth; excepting 
that they have lost much happiness which they 
never can regain. They have acted like simple¬ 
tons, and afford another exemplification of the 
old fable, wherein a man is represented as wan¬ 
dering over the whole world in search of happi¬ 
ness, and finally returning, heart-sick and weary, 
only to find that the angel whom he had sought 
so far, was brooding with folded wing beside his 
own hearth-stone.” 

Brooklyn , L. /. 


LOVE IS A PARTHIAN, 

Whin Love is advancing 
To capture the heart. 

With soft wiles entrancing, 

Ho shows not a dart; 

For Love wounds, no, never, 

The heart where be lies, 

A Parthian ever, 

lit shoots when he flies. 


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THE THALES OF PARIS 


77 


O r i f i d a I . 

THE THALES OF PARIS;* 

OR, THE MODERN PHILOSOPHER. 

One of the whims, conceits, or fancies most 
carressed by the bourgeois of Paris, is that of 
Philosophy. Not that he studies nature or culti¬ 
vates knowledge; but when his fortune has 
reached the limits of his desires, when age has 
softened the ardor of his passions, if he has a 
gable end on the street and a country-house ; if 
he is well established at home, in the midst of a 
comfortable luxury, surrounded by his wife and 
family, he thinks himself superior to events, 
above accidents—he is a philosopher. His phi¬ 
losophy is his hobby-horse, the reed upon which 
he rides like the child of Horace. When his 
wife scolds, when his rod burns, or some unex¬ 
pected accident deranges a country party, he 
smiles, appeases and consoles— he is a philoso¬ 
pher, Philosophy is his universal remedy; 
provided that it guarantees him against the 
events of life; and that his houses and his furni¬ 
ture are insured, and his funds out of the way of 
the hazardous chances of steam or railways— 
sleep exempt from imposts in the royal treasury. 

Monsieur d’Herbois, happy type of this con¬ 
solatory system, seemed to have been placed in 
this world expressly to cry up philosophy without 
ever being called upon to put it in practice. 
Enriched by a paternal fortune which he had 
augmented, he married young, a woman whom 
he loved. His only son aged twenty-two years, at 
this time, the time of our story was about to marry 
a young lady whose character, fortune and family 
suited equally our fortunate father—the philo¬ 
sopher. 

** My friend,” said he to Monsieur Durand, 
who was no philosopher, “ I shall give Gustavus 
my house at Sussy. I know it’s a great sacrifice, 
and that we shall not be able to pass our sum¬ 
mers there for the future, because my wife will 
not perhaps agree with her daughter-in-law; but 
we love Gustavus so much, and besides, one 
must be a philosopher. We shall occupy too, 
in Paris, the second floor; the first being given j 
up to the young people. My wife may pout a i 
little; but, as I have often said to her, ( how 
would it be, my dear, if a sudden misfortune 
should ruin us ? Then we should have to climb 
Up to the galetas , and call to aid all our philo¬ 
sophy perhaps, to mount yet higher.’ Thales of 
Milet,—one of the seven wise men of Greece, 


* Translated from the French of M. Mario Aycard. 


who supported every ill without a murmur, or 
rather who defied man to trouble the serenity of 
his soul, and the tranquility of his mind—thus 
acted, and why shouldn’t I ?” 

44 And do you put out the same defiance to 
man, that Thales did ?” asked Mods. Durand. 

44 Sans doute. You know, my friend, whether 
I have the right or not. Have you ever seen me 
depart from my principles ?” 

44 1 know,” replied Durand, “that for thirty 
years, since we left college, I never saw you 
afflicted with any family ill; and if Thales of 
Milet, whose history I have forgotten, was always 
as lucky, his philosophy cost him very little more 
than yours has cost you.” 

44 Frankly,” replied with bon homie % Mons. 
d’Herbois, 44 1 think myself more of a philoso¬ 
pher than Thales himself, for I have never failed 
either as a husband or father, and Thales was a 
bachelor.” 

44 But, once more,” said his friend Durand, 
44 you have never been put to the proof.” 

44 Let it come, I am ready.” 

44 If your wife should betray you, if your son 
should not fulfil your hopes, could you support 
these misfortunes with the constancy of Job ?” 

44 Of Thales, my friend, of Thales ; don’t con¬ 
found them if you please. 4 A tout 6v6nement 
le sage est pr£par6,’ said the poet, who spoke 
of a Greek, and not of an Arab, like your 
Job.” 

Mons. d’Herbois, proud of himself and of 
his Thales, pursued with alacrity the prepara¬ 
tions necessary for the nuptials of his well 
beloved son, and already saw his grand-children 
dancing on his knees, when one morning he 
wished to enter Gustavus’ room to consult him 
upon the purchase of some jewelry. Before 
turning the handle of the door, the curtain of 
which was on his side, he stopped because be 
heard a noise : his son was not alone. 

44 Oh! oh!” said he, 44 Gustavus is making his 
adieu to his bachelor life.” 

He raised a corner of the curtain, tr&nquilized 
himself a little : Gustavus had but one visitor, a 
stranger. 

44 It is perhaps a creditor,” thought he. 

He placed himself so that he could see and 
hear. Standing in the middle of the room of the 
young mao, was a person about the age of Mons. 
d’Herbois, hair graying , intelligent and sharp 
countenance, the body enveloped in a great coat 
4 la proprietaire. 

“My dear Peter,” said this man, 44 listen to 
me-” 


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THE THALES OF PARIS. 


“ Peter ?" exclaimed the younger d’Herbois, 

“you have misunderstood me, Monsieur, my 
name is Gustavus." 

“ I have made no mistake,' 1 continued the 
stranger; “ listen to me, I beg you, I am about 
telling you something that fills me with joy; 
and all my fear is that it will not cause you as 
much pleasure as it does me." 

“Go on,” said Gustavus, “nothing that is 
agreeable to an honest man can grieve me. Go 
on, Monsieur." 

This man, whose presence gave singular unea¬ 
siness to Monsieur d’Herbois, sat down and thus 
began: 

“ You must know that it is now twenty-two 
years since Madame d’Herbois had a son. She 
could not take charge of it herself, so a nurse 
was sought, and my wife, Margaret Pithou, of 
Pontoise, was chosen." fortune. You will feel that I am not the man to 

“ Ah! you are my nurse-father," exclaimed wish you to profit by the wealth of Monsieur 
Gustavus with open arms; “come, my father d’Herbois. We will tell him all; adieu. I 
and mother will be delighted to see you." have the proofs of what I have advanced ; I am 

“ Softly, softly," said Pithou; “ neither Mon- now going to fetch them to show to Monsieur 
sieur nor Madame d’Herbois must know that I d’Herbois. 

am here, nor that I have spoken to you, until So saying, Pithou embraced Gustavus anew, 
you know all." and departed by the private staircase. 

“Know all? Monsieur Pithou, what is the In the meanwhile, D’Herbois, who had not 
matter?” lost a word of the conversation, knew not what to 

“ You shall see." do, or to think. Gustavus his son ! that child 

The more the conversation assumed an inte- whom he had not lost sight of for twenty-one 
resting and mysterious turn, the more the philo- years, whom he loved better than father had ever 
sopher d’Herbois became fixed, fearing either to loved son, for whom he would have given up 
move or to breathe. every thing, who bore his name ! Gustavus to 

“We were poor raisers of veal," continued be called Peter Pithou; he the son of another? 
Pithou, “ but came out very well at the end of D’Herbois ran to seek his wife with troubled 
the year if our cows did not fall sick. We were countenance. 

young and had a child scarcely three months “ Madame," said he, “ madame, I have a son 
older than that of Monsieur d’Herbois." no longer. My child is dead,—has been, for 

“Than me ?" said Gustavus. twenty-one years." 

“You shall see. Our misfortunes dated from Madame d’Herbois was a woman of a lively 
the arrival of a Parisian, who established him- disposition ; she knew her husband well, and did 
self at Pontoise, with plenty of capital, pur- not take his word literally. 

chased the handsomest cows, had the most “ You frightened me," said she smiling, “ but 
spacious sheds, in brief, crushed the smaller if Gustavus has been dead twenty-one years, I 
raisers like me, by raising veal that was always feel a little re-assured in thinking of the appetite 


sary to attack them by a ruse so as to obtain 
from their credulity that which their indiffetence 
would refuse us.’ I made up my mind to send 
you to Monsieur d’Herbois, by Cousin Potard, 
who was herself the dupe of my ruse. You are 
my son Peter, my own Peter." 

Pithou rose when he had finished this singular 
story, took Gustavus by the head, kissed his fore¬ 
head, and shed tears of joy over the astonished 
young man. 

“ What could I do, my son ?" said he. “ The 
time passed with Monsieur d’Herbois, has pro¬ 
cured you the advantage of a good education, 
and has been free from misery. When I exa¬ 
mine myself well, and think seriously of what I 
have done, I do not repent. Since that time, 

! Heaven has blessed me. I went to Paris, em- 
! braced commerce, and like others, have made a 


the fattest and brought the best price. One bad 
year ruined us. My wife took it to heart, and 
fell sick, and one night she and the son of Mon. 
sieur d’Herbois died. My poor Peter," con¬ 
tinued Pithou, addressing Gustavus, “ my poor , 
Peter, I was in a pitiable state; nothing left, ' 
without wife and money, nothing left but debts 
and an infant. Then I was.seized with an idea I 


he evinced this morning at breakfast." 

“ Gustavus is not my son, madame." 

“ What do you mean, sir ?” 

“ Mon dieu! Madame, you do not under¬ 
stand me; he is no more my son than yours. 
Poor Gustavus died at his nurse’s, and we have 
the son of Pithou, Peter Pithou." 

They then recalled all the details of the in- 


from heaven. I said to myself, 4 the rich are , fancy of Gustavus; he had been, in fact, put to 
here to solace the poor and to aid them, but as nurse at Pontoise, and withdrawn, on account of 


they are hard, egotistical and miserly, it is neces the death of Marguerite. All that Pithou had 


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THE THALES OF PARIS. 


79 


said, bore the semblance of truth; perhaps, alas! 
it was all true ! Gustavus, at this moment, en¬ 
tered his mother’s apartment, and Monsieur d’ 
Herbois remarked, for the first time, that the 
young man was not at all like him ; he had 
neither the same eyes, the same figure, nor the 
same gait. He also remarked, mentally, that 
the voice of Gustavus had exactly the same tone 
as that of Pithou. Gustavus, embarrassed by 
his secret, knew not how to commence so pain¬ 
ful a confidence. His eyes were filled with tears, 
he went from Monsieur d’Herbois to his wife, 
without daring either to speak or to embrace 
them. 

“ Come, my son,” cried Madame d* Herbois, 
“ come, we know all; but you are my son ! I 
feel it in my heart; come!” 

“You know all,”said Gustavus; “Pithou has 
already then returned with his proofs ?” 

“ No, but your father has heard it all.” 

A domestic came to announce to Mosieur d’ 
Herbois that some one was waiting to see him in 
his cabinet. 

“ It is that Pithou,” said he, and he left mother 
and son weeping together. 

In the cabinet he found his friend Durand. 

“ You are about marrying your son,” said 
Durand, “ and I thought you would willingly 
make acquisition of the most beautiful cameo I 
ever saw,—look here,—and not dear—” 

“ To the diable with your cameo, and the 
nuptials of my son, also !” exclaimed D’Herbois, 
beside himself. 

“What’s the matter? Has Gustavus been 
guilty of any folly ?” 

“ There is no longer any Gustavus; I have no 
longer any son, only Monsieur Peter Pithou.” 

D’Herbois related the discovery he had just 
made. 

“ Eh bien !” said Durand, “ every thing may 
be arranged. We can make Pithou hear reason, 
and it is possible that he may consent to allow 
Gustavus to retain the name he bears; and as 
you have the affections of the young man, what 
does it matter ?” 

“ What does it matter ?” replied D’Herbois, 
in a passion. “ What does it matter? I have 
lost my son,—my flesh and blood,—my life. 
In their place I have the descendant of Pithou, 
and you ask me what does it matter ?” 

“Have you not loved him until now as if he 
were your son ? Believe me, arrange with 
Pithou; the young man will never yield the love 
he bears you, and Pithou will lose by the bar¬ 
gain.” 

“ The scoundrel!” exclaimed D’Herbois, 


walking up and down the cabinet, “to have played 
with me in this way,—thus to have entrapped ray 
affections; but there are laws to punish crime; 
we are in a civilized country, we have a code; 
the substitution of children is punishable in 
France; I will invoke the laws, drag the guilty 
before the tribunals, and he shall die on the scaf¬ 
fold.” 

“ Reflect,” replied Durand, “ that there are 
many extenuating circumstances in the step of 
Pithou. Besides, remark his conduct now; as 
soon as he is rich and able, he reclaims his son; 
he does not desire that he should profit by your 
riches.” 

But D’Herbois wouldn’t listen to his friend ; 
he gave himself up to all the violence of his 
anger, and already there germed in his heart a 
singular disaffection for a son until now so much 
: loved. 

“Yes, yes,” said he, “it’s Pithou’s voice, 
action and walk,—without doubt, this Peter 
Pithou is as big a cheat as his father.” 

“ Come, come,” said Durand, “ let Gustavus 
marry ; he has had nothiog to do with this, and 
buy my cameo; you’ll never meet with such 
another chance.” 

“Confound you and your cameo,” was the 
reply. 

“ Do you forget, my friend, that you are a phi¬ 
losopher, and that you defy mankind to trouble 
the tranquility of your mind, or the serenity of 
your soul ?” 

“ A philosopher, when I have lost my child ?” 

“You have lost nothing; Gustavus is well, 
and as for him who has been dead for twenty-one 
years, you did not know him; you scarcely ever 
saw him, and besides, where is the merit and the 
advantage of philosophy, if it serve not to console 
us under great afflictions, to moderate grief, and 
to give to the mind all the calm necessary to 
soften ill, and to arrive always at truth.” 

Instead of replying, the philosopher wept; 
two streams of tears ran from his eyes, to attest 
the vanity of his stoicism, and the superiority of 
the Thales of Milet over the Thales of Paris. 

“ Ah i ah! I have conquered your philoso¬ 
phy,” said Monsieur Durand; eh Men, console 
yourself. Lapierre, Lapierre, come in.” 

Lapierre entered; he had changed his livery, 
aud still wore the great coat u la propriStaire. 

“This is Pithou; there is none other; it is 
Lapierre, my valet. Now, Monsieur, the Phi¬ 
losopher, is it thus that you practice ? As soon 
as misfortune points at you with her finger, you 
are beside yourself; you examine nothing, 
neither truth nor its semblance, and before the 


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80 


THE SISTER’S FAREWELL. 


slightest proof is in your hands, you cast aside 
your affections and almost your child, and would 
condemn a man to the galleys. And yet one of 
Thales' maxims, whose history I have re-read, 
runs thus 

‘Decide not lightly.’ ” 

Monsieur d’Herbois, confused and humilia¬ 
ted, confessed this was too much for his philoso¬ 
phy. Either from self-love, or the bon homie 
natural to Parisian philosophers, he did not em¬ 
broil himself with his friend. Gustavus only had 
to suffer for this test. Monsieur d’Herbois 
could never again see in his son that resem¬ 
blance to himself, of which he had formerly been 
so proud, and when the young man spoke, 

44 It is not my organ,” he would say; 41 it’s the 
voice of Pithou.” 

At last h# became convinced of the weakness 
of his philosophy, and gave himself up to his 
duties of father and husband. 

44 It is impossible,” said he, 44 to preserve one's 
serenity if happiness is out of our reach, and if 
it depends upon a wife or a child. So when the 
mother of Thales engaged him to marry: It is 
not yet time,” said he, and later, when she re¬ 
newed her prayers, his answer was: 44 The time 

is gone by.” 

In our days, the philosophy of many dates 
from the day after their marriage. s. n. 


Original. 

HIDDEN THINGS. 

Hidosn genu are in the sea, 

And hidden music in the air— 

Beauty which we mortals see not, 

Thrills around us every where. 

Hidden thoughts—how bright, how many ! 

Break like bubbles in the sun, 

Where the stream, unseen of any, 
Underneath wild flowers doth run. 
Hidden loves and hidden dreamings— 
Treasures never brought to light— 

Live and vanish like the gleamings 
Of bright meteors in the night. 

Hidden faith and hidden worship— 

Oh, how strtAg—how pure—how deep! 
Swell and flow like secret fountains, 

Where the wild birds dream and sleep. 
Why are these, if not to tell us 
That these broken links unite 
In a chain for ever sparkling 
In eternity’s deep light 7 
Oh, how desolate and dreary 
Would this world of sorrow bo, 

God! if Thou had’st never whispered 
'Tis the path that leads to Thse ! 


Orif iniK 

THE SISTER’S FAREWELL.* 


Oh, stay one moment, brother mine, 

Nor bear her yet away; 

She is my whole life's sister,—thou 
The brother of a day. 

Amid these dear old solemn shades, 

Together grew our youth; 

Together here, in converse sweet, 

We learned to worship truth; 

For we had naught but each her heart 
To read the other by, 

And deemed all else as pure as they. 

Or as the summer sky. 

Together hand and spirit linked 
We’ve watched the rosy years 
For fifteen dreamy cycles sweep,— 

Nor met them yet with tears. 

Together prayed we in the bower. 

Together laughed and snng,— 

Together plucked the early flowers 
That in the wildwood sprang. 

Together, when the evening came, 

Our father’s hands have pressed 
Our bended heads,—whose full heart wept 
Fondly o’er what it blessed. 

Together in the solemn night, 

Check pressed to check we slept, 

And dreumed our mother over us 
Her night-long vigil kept. 

Ah, then each sister's heart ran o'er, 

And mingled with the other,— 

Till now I deem that thou hast won 
A part of mine, sweet brother! 

Nay, take her now! Her sobbing heart 
Will calm beneath thine eye, 

As the wild tide beneath the moon 
Shrinks hushed and hurrying by. 

Away, away ! thy gallant steed 
Impatient to be gone, 

Plashes the rivulet in the light 
Of the new-breaking dawn; 

Once more,—the last,—the last good bye! 

Sweet*sister, think of me! 

Brave knight protect her,—she will prove 
A beam of light to thee t 

To bless thee in thy darksome hours, 

To choer thy loneliest way,— 

To make the drearest night seem fair 
As gleam of opening day. 

XPHCMXROir. 

* See plate second. 


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COUNTERFEIT,PRESENTMENTS. 


81 


Or if igti. 

COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS.—NO. V. 

LOVER.—AUTHOR OF “ RORY o'MORE,” ETC. 

" Quid rectum, sit apparel. 

Quid expediat, olmcurum.” 

Lib. Tran > 

What is plain to be seen 
Has no curtain between. 

(A very judicious remark.) 

What is very obscure, 

(A fact equally sure) 

Remains, as it were, in the dark. 

Some account of Barty Fin's adventure among the 
Salmon. 

“ It’ll be a great day for the sport, sir. I’ll 
take me Bible-oath—look out fomenst the 
windy—see them clouds a skelpin’ across—be 
me faix, I wouldn’t like to b# hungry salmin 
to-day, or a fly either, that ’ud happen to be 
takin’ a cowld bath.” 

Thus spoke my trusty companion, Tim Duffy, 
while packing up my rods for a piscatory excur¬ 
sion, highly delighted at being promoted for the 
nonce from shoe-black, and help-at-anything in a 
nondescript and excessive'y unsavory hut, digni¬ 
fied with the title of an Inn, with the tempting 
inscription, “ Enlhertainmint for Man an* Baste 
painted over the crazy door. 

“ Oh! be jakers, there’s a beauty,” cried Tiro, 
as he held up an undeniable red palmer, made 
by my esteemed friend, Murphy, of Bachelor’s 
Walk. “Bad luck to the fish that wouldn’t 
feel hungry at the sight of you, any way. You’ll 
be takin’ prog wid you, Masther John, won’t 
you ?” he inquired rather anxiously. 

“ Why, yes, Tim, I think I’ll take a sandwich 
or two,” said I. 

“ A which witch, sir ?” replied Tim, with an 
inquiring look. 

“ A few slices of bread and ham, that’s all.” 

“ That’s all, is it ? By my sowlkins, but it’s 
dhry you’ll be afore you're back thin.” 

“ But we shall have plenty of water,” said I, 
guessing at my friend Tim’s bibatory hints. 

“Wather! holy fly. Wather!” no language 
could convey the eloquence of Tim’s contemp¬ 
tuous look. “ Is it a Christian dhrink, wather?” 

Fearing to lose caste altogether with my 
guide, I just held up to his view a capacious 
pocket-pistol. His eyes twinkled, and a broad 
smile swept over his devilish funny face, as he 
continued, “Long life to you—that’s the real 
friend in disthress. But it’s like a poor man’s 
purse jist now. It has Moll Thompson’s mark 
in it. May be you’d like me to put the life in it 
at once ?” 

I assented, and Tim filled the flask with poteen 
whiskey, exclaiming as be presented it to me to 
10 


smell, “ There’s a par fume! wl at’s all ver oh de 
Cologny compared wid that? Oh, muidher au* 
turf—might I take a suck at it ?” and before I 
could nod an acquiescence, the fiery liquor 
gurgled down his horny throat. 

“ See that, now,” said he, as he wiped his lips 
with the back of his hand, “may I never see 
Moses if the half ov it hasn’t slipped down 
onawares. By this and that, Masther John, I 
niver intentioned more than a mouthful to go, 
but I’ll pay for what I drunk with a blessin’.” 

“Yes, and only with a blessing,” I replied, 
“ but come, be quick, fill it up again, and just be 
good enough not to trust that throat of yours 
too near it again.” 

“Bedad, sir,” said Tim, as he went, “I only 
wish that my throat was a mile long, an* that I 
might be able to taste all the way down.” 

A most Hibernian and expressive wish, 
thought I. And now we started upon our 
enterprize against the finny tribe, and did not 
proceed very far before I heard two or three 
instances of the ready wit and quick repartee for 
which the Irish are so remarkable: one I think 
worth recording. Passing by a small likely river 
we saw a fellow fishing with all his might, but 
it appeared without much success. Tim accosted 
him with the usual salutation, 

“ God save you, friend !” 

“ God save you kindly,” was the conventional 
reply. 

“That’s an iligant sthrame for throut, you’re 
fishin’ in,” continued Tim. 

“ By the hokey, you’re right there, any way,” 
said the angler, “ for the divil take me if I can 
get one ov thim to leave it.” 

Very fair! thought I, and worth a shilling of 
any man’s money. And having owoed to the 
debt, paid it, to the pleasure and astonishment of 
my patient friend, for shillings were scarce in the 
neighborhood. 

Thus we perambulated on towards the Shan¬ 
non, Tim enlivening the way by a piquant 
anecdote, of which he had many; and sundry 
snatches of songs, of which he had more. One 
of his ditties having written out from bis dic¬ 
tation, perhaps may amuse you, as it did me. In 
the faint hope, such as it is, here it is—pre¬ 
suming on Tim’s own authority for the infor¬ 
mation of those learned in such matters, that it 
goes to the tune of “ The Slashing Blade." 

“CRUEL KITTY. 


Ob a ! murdber ! murdher! Kill/ dtar, 
I’m a wattin' at) away, 

By raytoo of your cruHfy 
My braioa it gone axtbray: 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


They tell me eun'light has the strength 
To make the sinte* fly. 

So my poor bead was empty ed 
By the bright beam of your eye. 

Ora! what'a the use in life at all, 

Sense you have xarved me no, 

I have no heart, for to work or to play, 
Lie down, stand up, or go. 

Just like a young tree brexthed on 
By a warm but a blightin’ air, 

Your smile has stole all hope awuy, 

And left me but despair. 

Ora! would some fairy change me 
To a purty bird or flower, 

That my Kitty’s hands might tend on me 
Ev’ry day, und ev’ry hour! 

For her dear eyes to look on me, 

I’d he some lifeless thing, 

More gladly, than away from them 
To be a mighty king. 


Ora! when yon die, I*d like to be 
Transformed into a stone 
With outride smooth and shinin'. 

And heart cow Id as your own ; 

That I might stand and guard your grave 
When calmly there vou rest. 

And bear my dartin' Kitty's nams 
Engraved upon my breast ." 

*Twas not long before we reached the river’9 
bank. But, inasmuch as it is not my story, but 
another's, that I wish to relate, I will simply say 
that after switching the water for upwards of two 
hours, contrary to Tim’s prognostics we did not 
get so much as a bite. 

“Bad luck to the luck of it,” said Tim, 
despondingly, “if this doesn’t beat Barty Fin, 
I’m a Duchman.” 

“ And who, pray, may your friend Fin be ?” I 
inquired. 

“ What!” said my companion, with a sort 
of where-have-you-been-all-your-life expression, 
“ athin didn’t you know Barty ?” 

Upon my acknowledging my lamentable igno¬ 
rance, Tim continued : 

“ Then, by Goxty, we’ll go an* rout out the 
ould sinner, an 1 make him tell about the jollifi¬ 
cation he had wid the salmins.” 

Nothing loth, for fishing without good fortune 
is most laborious idleness, I followed my guide 
to the cabin of his friend Barty, whom we found 
just rising from his potato-dinner, without even 
the smell of a red herring by way of relish. 

The introduction was soon made. 

“ God save you, Barty,” said Tim, “ sure, an’ 
haven’t I brought a rail ould Trinity College 
boy, all the way here to listen to that quare 
story ov yours T” 

“It’s welcome he is,” said Barty, “as the 
flowers in May. An’ I don’t mind repaitin’ the 
story, only I’m thinkin’ the gintleman won’t care 
over much about an ould fellow’s gosther.” 

He was a lion, and had a lion’s vanity. I 
administered a heavy dose, and soon elicited the 
following : 


“ What I’m goin’ to tell yer, happened long 
afore either of yer was born. I was a young 
fellow then, an’ could work as well as any boy in 
the barony. But the times was hard, an* I was 
obligated to hunt up a bit of livin’ by fishin’ here 
in the Shannon, hard bye. 

“Well, it was one day in July, that I was 
standin’ wid the rod in my hand for as good as 
four mortal hours, without as much as a nibble, 
and the heat of the sun almost makin* cindhers 
of me. I was gettin* weary wid waitin’, and 
thinkin’ that it ’ud be betther for me to go home, 
hungry as I was, when all at once I cautch sight 
I of a tremendious great salmin right fornenst me: 
oh, murdher, how roy mouth wathered, every 
time I saw his silvery belly flashin’ through the 
wather! 

“ * Hurrah,’ says I, 4 there’s breakfast, dinner 
and supper for one week, any way.’ And I had 
him cautch and eat iu my mind, afore a minute was 
over. So I gets one of my slaughtherers—a fly 
of ray own making, so natural, that all it wanted 
was a buzz to make it a raal insect, and I drops 
it gingerly over his gob. But the devil a toe 
would he touch it. I thought I heard a splut¬ 
tering sort of laugh coming out of the water, and 
away goes the fish and pops up his muzzle about 
a hundred yards off. I cut after him as hard as 
I could lay foot to ground, but whin I got up to 
the place, up gets his snout at the place I jist 
left. 

“ Well, sir, he played me that thrick about a 
half a dozen times, and every time that quare 
wathery laugh; when I got tired, and roared 
out, ‘Musha! then may the devil take you for an 
onpleasantsort of a fish. But I’ll ketch you yet, 
cunning as you are.’ 

“ Well, sir, the minute I said that, the Vargin 
betune us an’ all accidints, if the salmin didn’t 
perch bolt upright on the end of his tale, and 
cried out in a voice something between a babby’s 
squeak and a cracked whistle: 

“ 4 Will you ketch me? I’ll take damn good 
care that you don’t, Misther Barty Fin, come it 
over me with the pride of your dirty fly. Do you 
think I don’t know the differ betune a twist or 
silk and a wholesome catherpillar?’ 

44 If you were to see me then, you wouldn’t a 
guv twopence for me, body and sowl. My hair 
ran into my head like wires. I thried to run, 
but my very feet stuck to the ground, and when 
I came properly to myself, what did I see but 
that devil of a salmin laughin’ ready to split his 
gills at me! 

44 At last I plucks up courage, and I says, 
4 What the divU are you laughin at ?’ says I. 


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83 


44 4 At you,’ says he; 4 you’re an iligant fellow 
to go ketching fish, aint you ? Why, you’re 
afraid of me.’ 

44 4 Am I ?’ says I. 

44 4 You are,’ says he. 

44 4 Why, thin, savin’ your presence, you lie, 
sir,’ says I, for nobody likes to be called a 
coward, any how. 

44 4 Prove it,’ says the salmin. 

44 4 How, sir?’ says I. 

44 4 Come and take a nice ride atop of my back,’ 
says he. 

44 Well, sir, with that, to show my bravery, and 
that it wasn’t in my nature to be cowed by a fish, 
divil take me if I didn’t whip off my brougues 
and my stockin’s, and jump’d clean on the blag- 
gard’s back. 

44 O, the laugh he set up, whin I was once fairly 
in his power. Away he darted down the Shan¬ 
non like a shootin’ star in a hurry. Afther wa’d 
swum a mile or two, in about a minute, he stop¬ 
ped, and says he,— 

44 4 How do you like your ride, Misther Barty 
Fin ?” 

44 4 Beautiful, my darlin,’ says I, sootherin’ him, 

4 but you’d oblige me if you wouldn’t dive.’ 

44 4 Pooh, you know nothing about divin’ yet,’ 
says he, and gave a head-over-heels into the 
water, and carried me about half a mile down an’ 
up again while you’d say fags. 

44 4 That's what I call a dive,’ says he, as I 
puffed and spluttered the water off. 

44 4 An* no mistake, sir,’ says I, thinking it was 
best to be easy. At last it come into my head, 
that if I could slip off my heavy coat, I might be 
able to swim to the shore, which was now a tre¬ 
mendous way off. I just had one arm out, when 
he cries— 

44 * What are you afther, Barty ?’ 

44 4 Nothin’ in life, sir,’ says I, afear’d of offendin’ 
him; 4 but it’s so mortial hot in these parts.’ 

44 4 So it is, Barty,’ says he, quite pityful, ‘but 
it’ll be cooler by-and-by ; shut your eyes avic.” 

44 Well, sir, I did shut them only for ever so 
little of a wink, and when I opened them again, 
the devil take the morsel of coat at all could I 
see that wasn’t entirely covered over with wather. 
Oh ! the state I was in, all alone upon the top of 
a sea, ridin’ upon a fish’s back, an’ moreover a 
mighty skittish sort of a fish. At last he says to 
me— 

44 4 Keep up your sperits, Barty, we’re almost at 
home, now.’ 

44 4 Are we, sir,’ says I, 4 and may I make so 
bowld as to ax what you call home ?’ 

44 4 Down at the bottom of the say,’ says he, 4 to ■ 


the palace of the king of the salmins; it’s him 
that I’m takin* you to see.’ 

44 4 Oh! thin it is. I’m mighty proud of the 
information, sir,’ says I, 4 but how am 1 to get 
there ? sure I couldn’t live in the bottom of the 
sea, barrin’ that I was a fish or a stone.* 

44 4 Weil see,* says he. 4 Shut your eyes 
again.’ The minute I did, up went his tail, and 
down, down, right to the very bottom, and the 
never a throuble it gave me to draw ray breath 
or to see, no more than if it was dry land; the 
air was rather thick, that’s all. 

44 Well, sir, I hadn’t been long there, when a 
big, fightin’ lookin’ fish walks right up, and hits 
me a slap in the chops. 

44 ‘Hollo,’ says I, 4 fair play; what’s that for?’ 

‘‘‘Quite enough,* says the fish. 4 1 wonder 
what you’d do if any body was to boil your 
mother.* 

44 4 Or pickle your father ?’ says another fellow, 
flickin’ me on the other side. 

44 4 Or fry all your family, bad luck to Barty 
Fin,’ says a fat flounder, fetchin* me a dab. 
The queerest thing to me, was, how well they all 
seemed to know my name. 

44 Well, sir, at last, after sthrollin* through 
the say-weed gardins, we came to the king’s 
palace, and a mighty fine place it was, as iver 
you saw, all made up of beautiful shells, of all 
colors, with shrubberrys of say trees, and walks 
and grottos, and inside of it was the king, with 
his great lords and dukes, and things with their 
crowns and their mithers all so grand, sittin’ 
down to dinner. When the king saw me come, 
he riz from his throne, and said, 4 Ah ! ha! is it 
there you are ?’ says he. 4 Ladies and gintle- 
men, this is my friend, Barty Fin, from Tippe¬ 
rary and wid that, every sowl got up and made 
an obeysance. 

“‘Come, Barty,’ says the king, ‘won’t you 
peck a bit afther your journey ?’ 

44 4 Bedad I will, your honor’s glory,’ says I. 
It was bacon and beans they were eatin’, and so 
I sot down upon a bit of a rock, and helped my¬ 
self to the eatables in great style. 

44 4 Well, Barty,’ says the king, after I’d stuffed 
like a sack, 4 is there any thing else you’d like?’ 

44 4 Why then, savin* your majesty’s presence,* 
I says, 4 the bacon’s beautiful, but the last bit I 
eat, I’m afeared is stickin’ in my throat. Now 
the least taste in life of whiskey, would wash it 
down as natural as if it was niver there.’ 

44 So the king laughed, and all the rest of the 
scheners laughed, of course, and he towld a 
young throut that was running about attendin,* 
to fetch me a glass of the rakl bury me dacint, 


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84 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


out of his own private still, and you may depind 
I wasn’t a week dhrinkin’ it. As soon as the 
dinner was over, and all the chaps had a couple 
of sthrong tumblers of whiskey-punch apiece, 
the king axed me if I’d like to take a 81ravage 
over his house; and without waiting for me to 
say yes or no, he claps his fin under my oxther, 
and out we marched in great style. First came 
two young salmin throuts, with long weeds in 
their fins, struttin’ before us just as proud as 
gardeners’ dogs with polyanthuses tied to their 
tails; then came some of the fishy quality, turn¬ 
in’ up their noses, and swellin’ out their gills; 
then more of the flunkey fishes, howldin’ staffs 
and other mighty quare things. After a whole 
heap of those passed by, then came the king’s 
sarvants, a regular shoal, some of them carryin’ 
bits of coral on bunches of say-weed. One fel¬ 
low had a great say unicorn’s horn over his 
shoulder, and another had something like a big 
tay-pot. Then came his majesty himself, with a 
half a dozen small fry howldin’ hi9 tail out of the 
mud, followed by your humble sarvent; and be 
the hokey, I warnt small beer, for there was a 
fine fat codfish carrying my ould hat on a platter 
before me, and two or three chaps sthreelin’ after, 
howldin’ up the tails of my coat. I’d rather 
they’d a let it be, for the cowld got among my 
legs. 

41 Well, sir, after proceedin’ about, an’ seein’ 
every thing that was to be seen, we came at last 
to the place where the king kept all his money, 
an’ a mighty great heap he had,—a whole room 
full, gathered up like wheat in a barn. 

44 4 Look at that, Barty,’ says the king; ‘that’s 
all mine ; isn’t there a jolly lot of it ?* 

u 4 By my sowlkine hut that there is, your reve¬ 
rence,’ says I. 

44 4 What would you say,* says be, 4 if I’d let 
you take as much as iver you liked of the 
money ?* 

44 4 I’d say long life to your royal glory, and the 
devil sweep the biaggard hook that ever attempts 
to enter your majesty’s honorable gullet.’ 

44 4 Then fire away,’ says he, 4 and while you’re 
fillin’ your pockets, I’ll tell you why I paid you 
this honor. Do you recollect once fishing near 
the very spot you came from to day, and catch- 
in’ a lively little salmin trout by the nose, as he 
was going to school, and lettia* him go again, 
because he was so young an’ innocent V 

44 1 made believe I did, though I didn’t. 

44 4 I’m he,’ says the king ; 4 look, ther’s the 
mark of the hook,’ pokin’ his nose in my face, 
4 so fill away,—take as much as you like, but 
pt omise me that you wont fish again.’ 


44 4 The devil a fish,* says I. 4 Isn’t it the hun¬ 
ger and the poverty that makes me do it ?’ 

44 4 Ah ! but swear,’ says he. 

44 4 What ?* says I. 

44 4 May the sowl of my mother never see glory, 
if I ever bait a hook.’ 

44 Well, sir, I took the oath, and whin I had my 
pockets full, the king called my bowld say pony. 

4 And now, good bye, Barty,* says he, ‘you’ll 
remember your promise ?* 

44 4 Never fear me, your majesty,’ says I, and 
he guv me the tip of his fin to kiss. I got across 
the salmin’s back, shut my eyes, and was up on 
the top of the water again, while a cat would be 
lickin’ her whisker. 

44 Well, sir, for convanience, I upset all the 
money into my hat, and if you believe me, the 
goolden guineas filled it up to the very brim, and 
there was I, sailin’ along, cuddlin’ it before me, 
and makin’ all sorts of intintions as to what I’d 
do with so much treasure. Won’t I have a 
blow out? says I to myself. I’ll invite the whole 
parish, an’ the next county, an’ we’ll have such 
a jobation as niver was seen seincp 4 O’Rourke’s 
noble feast,’ and I’ll ax Katty immediately to 
marry me, and I’ll settle a fortune on her and 
her children,—but in the very thick of my castle 
buildin’, I wasn’t mindin’ that we had got to the 
very place I took wather from. The vagabobd 
fish gave the devil’s own twist of his back, and 
flung me head over heels upon the bank. It 
stunned me for a minute, and when I came to 
myself, bad luck to me if my ould hat wasn’t 
floatin’ right down the stream, with every stitch 
of the money in it. I off clothes in a giffey, and 
out I swims to thry an’ overtake it, but it was no 
use. Away I went, and the last I saw of it, it 
gave a keel round, and went plump to the bottom, 
so that the devil a scuing had I after all. But I 
didn’t forget my oath for all that; from that day 
to this, a fishin’-rod has never been in my hand.” 

Barty Fin would, no doubt, take the life of 
any man, woman or child, who might venture to 
insinuate that he had fallen asleep upon the 
river’s bank. b. 


The judgment must be employed to discern 
the truth or falsehood of assertions, by attending 
to the credibility and consistency of the different 
parts of the story : the veracity and character of 
witnesses in other respects; by comparing the 
assertions with accounts received from other 
witnesses, who could not be ignorant of the 
facts ; and, lastly, by bringing the whole to the test 
of a comparison with known and admitted facts. 


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WESTMINSTER HALL 


83 


O r i g I d • I . 

WESTMINSTER HALL. 


BT MRS. LTDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 


Westminster Hall, it is well known, was built by William 
Raft!*, in 1093, and was the scene of the revel of the uefortunate 
Richard II., when he gave entertainment to 10,000 guest*. It is 
couaidered the largest room in Europe, unsupported by pillar* ; 
—being about two hundred and seventy feet ip leugtb and 
seventy-four in breadth, and unmarked by any decoration. My 
first visit to it was in the autumu, and rendered memorable by 
the imposing pageant of the Judges of England coming to open 
the annual session of the Courts. They were in their splendid 
robes of state,—and preceded by the High Chancellor of the 
realm.—Lord Celtenham,—passed on through rows of bar¬ 
risters. and took their seats in the courts of their respective 
jurisdiction, all of which are entered through Westminster 
Hall. Their dignity of bearing, and brows marked by wisdom 
and profouud thought, justified the reverence of the dense 
throng, assembled on the occasion. And though nurtured in 
republicanism, I could not but rejoice at any outward mark of 
respect, which tends to uphold the authority of Law in the eyes, 
of the people;—for he who decries the sacredness of justice, 
weakeos the protection of his own fireside, and may uncon- 
aciously grasp in his hand the mnrderous sleol of revolution. 


Well, —one must own this is a goodly room. 

Of vast and fair proportions,—where at ease 
The tallest §OB9 of Anak might have tower’d, 

Waltzing or promenading, ah they please. 

The Norman huntur-King bath left behind 
A lordly gift to keep hi* red elf-lock* in mind. 

And hero they say, the gay and fickle son 

Of the brave Black Prince held a revel proud, 
Feasting ten thousand guests. I wonder where 
They serv’d or seated such a mighty crowd. 

While with a right good-will that scorn’d control 
The huge sirloin they carv’d, and drained the wassail-bowl. 

Amid the royal train, methinks, I see 

Old John of Gaunt, whose dark, prophetic frown 
Dwells on his banish’d son,—while mad with glee 
Unthinking Richard shakes his rubied crown, 
Reckless, os when ho rush’d with beardless face 
To meet Wat Tyler’* mob, where Walworth rear’d his 
mace. 

Ten thousand guests! Alas,—poor, thoughtless King, 
’Mid all these eching shouts, the roof that rent, 

Rose there no vision of thy future woes ?— 

Usurping Bolingbroke, with stern intent?— 

The throngs, whose loud hosannas turn’d to hate?— 
And Pomfret—Castle’s deeds of dire, mysterious fate? 

I cannot laugh in England,—I have tried,— 

But a majestic shadow seems to rise, 

Like Pallas lofty, or like Dian cold. 

And put to flight my mirthful melodies. 

And this is well enough,—since we weie made 
Surely for nobler ends, than the light jester’s trade. 

I cannot laugh in Englandwhen I’ve tried, 

Although there's much to cheer both heart and eye, 

It seems as if a lesson’d child decried 
Teachers and magistrates,—or lifted high 
A loud guffaw in its grave mother’s face,— 

At some ill-chosen hour;—a fearful want of grace. 


Yet, if I fail to laugh,—I still may trust 
Wiser to grow, and bring some seeds away 
To plant at home, and yield a healthful fruit 
For my young children, when I am laid in clay, 

And that’s a better husbandry than Mirth 

Which mocks at sober thought, may often boast on earth. 

Here are the various courts of Themis’ dome, 

I’ve enter’d all, yet paid no lawyer’s fees; 
High-Chancery, and Admiralty too, 

Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and the Common Pleas, 
And heard their varied eloquence, who wear 
Those flaxen wigs to hide their bright, unfrosted hair. 

And I have seen them pass, in robes of state, 

Those noble Judges of this ancient clime, 

On, through this hall, by the wild Norman rear’d, 

To ope their session at the autumn-prime, 

While in close ranks, the assembled people rose, 

To give them her own due, in whom their rights repose. 

And sure, the heartfelt reverence of a land 
Is justly paid to those, whose lore profound, 

Maintains the sacred majesty of Law, 

And throws a shield, the lowliest home around, 
Guarding the hearth-stone from the robbers broil. 

And bringing shame to vice, and peace to virtuous toil. 


Original. 

IDOL WORSHIP. 


BY MARY E. HEWITT. 


I. 

A TfMPi.it stands in ancient Rome, 

To Pagan goddess reared of yore; 
The sky looks through its ruined dome, 
And fallen columns stiew the floor, 
And o’er the pavement, broken all, 

And o’er the riven altar-stone, 

Forth gushing from the crumbling wall, 
A limpid stream flows gently on. 


ii. 

Thus in the temple of the heart, 

When time hath all our aims o’erthrown; 
When one by one our joys depart. 

And all our hopes lie crushed and strow*n— 
And when the idol w*e have wrought, 

And reared, as ’tw f ere, a thing divine; 

And offered incense of each thought, 

In daily worship at its shrine— 

And with our high resolves endowed, 

’Till all o'erladen with our fate, 

Thu* from its lofty altar bowed, 

It lies all fallen ’neath the weight— 

Lo! o’er our wept and shattered faith, 

That never back our trust may win; 

Springs forth the living well of Truth, 

The ruins of the heart within. 


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86 


SPECIMENS FROM THE G R E E K T R A G E D I A JC S . 


O r i f i n a I. 

SPECIMENS FROM THE GREEK 
TRAGEDIANS. 

THE PATHETIC.—EURIPIDES. 

BY WILLIAM HENRY HERBERT. ' 

At a period in the history of letters such as 
we have arrived at within a few years, when, 
(from the multiplication of subjects of recent and j 
immediate interest, from the vast increase of 
authorship in the English language, from the 
growing taste of the public for light and trivial 
novelties, from the extraordinary cheapness of 
publication, and the consequent diffusion of fugi¬ 
tive to the prejudice of standard works,) there 
appears to be a reasonable cause of apprehension 
that the grand, chaste models of antiquity may 
fall, and indeed are actually falling, into dissue- 
tude, if not distaste ; it has occurred to us, that 
something might be done towards arresting this 
downward tendency, by the preparation of occa¬ 
sional scenes from the classic poets of old, em¬ 
bodying passages of peculiar beauty, and afford¬ 
ing specimens of the proficiency of those great 
masters in every separate department of poetic 
excellence. It is true, that complete translations 
of the works of the most celebrated classic 
authors are already within reach of that large 
body of American readers to whom the dead 
tongues are unfamiliar: but it is an indisputable 
fact, that for the most part, the poetical transla¬ 
tors of the classic poets have either lacked the 
scholarship to comprehend the original, without 
reference to prose versions, or, if possessing the 
critical acumen, have lacked the poetic talent 
necessary to exhibit them in an attractive Eng¬ 
lish dress. 

Thus, Pope, who was himself a poet in the 
highest sense of the word, in producing his ex¬ 
quisite poem of the Iliad,—we call it his , for most 
certainly it is not Homer’s,—was compelled to 
retranslate a translation; and, of necessary conse¬ 
quence, although the scenes, characters, and 
incidents are all Homeric, the style, the air, the 
whole spirit, in short, and individuality of the 
poem, are as far from the Homeric as from the 
Shakspearean or Miltonic type. On the other 
hand, Potter, whose labors as a poetical transla¬ 
tor were enormous, and his industry unwearied, 
was almost utterly deficient in true poetic 
spirit, was gifted veiy moderately as respects 
either choice or copiousness of language, and, 
though generally correct as a scholar, had no 
pretension even in that department, to a station 
higher than tolerable eminence,—being a faulty 


I prosodian, and oftentimes an inaccurate transla- 
j tor. 

Hence it is, that while Homer, through Pope’s 
medium, is eagerly read by all classes of the 
I English and American public, and has become, 

| as it were, an English classic, iEschylus, Sopbo- 
I cles and Euripides, are comparatively unstudied 
| and unknown, except to the student or rare 
1 scholar: And it is indeed somewhat questiona¬ 
ble, how far any entire translation of Greek dra¬ 
mas could become generally popular with our 
public; since it cannot be denied, that although 
they abound in isolated passages full of the 
highest excellences, they contain at least as 
many, which, deprived of the rich euphony and 
peculiar metrical arrangement of their own 
stately tongue, must ever appear fiat and heavy 
to the English reader. The subjects, moreover, 
of not a few, will be found to lack interest, being 
too purely mythological or heroic, too much 
divested of immediate application to human 
tastes, and too remote from those familiar joys 
and sorrows which speak at once to all men, 
through 4 that one touch of nature,’ which has 
! been so beautifully and so truly said by our 
great bard of ages, to 4 make the whole world 
kin.’ 

Our plan, which,—should it appear to meet 
the success that in our belief it merits,—we may 
perhaps carry out through detached papers, is 
to select those passages of general and immedi¬ 
ate interest, turning on passions everywhere fek 
and acknowledged, which must speak home to 
every bosom; and to present them to our rea¬ 
ders in a translation which, we pledge ourselves, 
shall be strictly, scholastically, and literally accu¬ 
rate ; while it shall neither neglect the harmony 
and power of our own tongue, nor omit to em¬ 
body, so far as shall be found possible, the rythm 
of the original language, and the peculiar charac¬ 
teristics of the individual master. 

The passage which we have selected for the 
first of our series, is from Euripides, known, 
with what truth our readers will judge from the 
following extract, as the ‘ most pathetic ’ of the 
Athenians. The scene is between Medea, the 
heroine of the drama, which bears her name; 
Jason, her faithless husband; her two infant 
children with their preceptor ; and the Chorus, 
which in the Greek tragedy never left the stage, 
although it never, or very rarely, took any active 
part in the drama. There is but little need of 
comment; as the story, for the most part, tells 
itself; but it may be necessary to premise that 
the heroine, after preserving Jason from all man¬ 
ner of perils in her own, and afterwards in his 


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SPECIMENS FROM TJIE CREEK TRAGEDIANS. 87 


native land, after becoming his wife, and bear 
ing him children, finds herself deserted for a 
younger, fairer and richer bride, in Creusa, the 
daughter of Creon, King of Corinth. In this 
situation, half mad with passion and despair, she 
resolves on perpetrating a great deed of strange 
and horrible vengeance; and in the scene which 
follows, having altered her course of conduct from 
furious and open indignation, to dissembled 
quiet and submission, she deceives her husband 
to his ruin. It is believed that nothing in the 
range of language can surpass the conflict be¬ 
tween maternal love and frantic jealousy,—be¬ 
tween the terrible determination and the soft 
relenting,—the rage of the injured wife, the 
anguish of the doating mother,—the conscious¬ 
ness of the impotency of revenge,—‘the doubts 
more dreadful than despair!’—which breathe 
and burn in every line of the original; and 
which, we are bold to hope, shine, at least, with 
a weak reflected lustre in our English version. 


FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES, 
LIKE 865. 

JASON; MEDEA; CHORDS OF CORINTHIAN VIRGIN8. 
JASON. 

Summoned I come; nor, though indeed my foe, 

This favor would deny thee. Lo! I’ll hear. 

What would’st thou with me, woman, strange or new? 
MEDEA. 

For my words, Jason, rashly spoke of late, 

I pray thy pardon. Much hath moved my wrath, 

Nor strangely quite! For many loving deeds 
Once passed between us two. But I have had 
Words with myself, self-blaming. * Oh, vain wretch, 
Wherefore be mad, striving with who devise 
Sage councils ? Wherefore set thyself a foe 
’Gainst those, who rule the land—’gainst him, thy lord, 
Who, wisely for us all, a bride would woo 
Right Royal, and to these thy sons beget 
Brethren as potent 7 Wilt not turn aside 
From murmuring? Wherefore grieve, when Gods are 
kind? 

Are not these children mine, whom thus I see 
Of friends forsaken, and of native land 
Bereft for ever V Self-communing thus 
My rage I learned most impotent and vain, 

That now I praise thee, deem thee chaste and wise, 

This puissant consort choosing— I was mad, 

Who in thy counsels should have ta’en my part. 

And counselled with th ee yea! stood near thy bed 
Joyous and proud thy wedded wife to see!— 

But as we are we are—I say not ill— 

But women aye—we women. Oh! be not, 

As we, nor foolish deeds with foolish pay. 

For I submit me now, and own my acts 
Wrong in the past, and in the time to be 
Will bear me better. Come, my boys, my boys, 


Come from the house, and kiss, and hail your sire 
Even as I hail him, and, all thought of wrong 
Forgotten, love him. Love him, as of old. 

For peace hath come between us—we are friends. 
ENTER TWO CHILDREN WITH THEIR PRECEPTOR# 
Cling to his hand—his right hand ! Wo! is me— 

How dwells my soul on that which lurks behind. (Aside. 
My boys—and shall ye spread your sweet arms this 
To clasp me, long in this life? Fond, fond wretch, 

How full of dread, how prone to weep am I, 

That while I meet your sire, and thus forego 
All wrath, with tenderest tears mine eyes o’erflow. 
CHORUS. 

Nor I can all restrain the outgushing tear! 

Oh! may no direr grief than this be near. 

JASON. 

Woman, these words I praise—nor may I blame, 

Too much, your speech i’ the past. For like it is, 

Your sex to rage should fly, their bosom’s lord 
Wooing fresh spousals. But your heart hath turned 
To better counsels, and discerned the right 
In season, as a prudent woman’s should. 

For you, my children, by the God's good aid, 

Not rashly, hath your sire a scheme devised 
Of higher fortunes—for the first, I trow, 

Of this Corinthian land, the first in place 
Shall ye bo, with your brethren—then increase, 

Increase and prosper—for the rest your sire 
Shall care, and Hr., the God who guards us well. 

And oh! may I behold your happy youth 
By glorious manhood crowned; and all my foes 
Prostrate before ye fallen!—But wherefore, thou, 
Backward dost bend thy sidelong cheek of snow 
And dew thy lids with drops of livid wo ?— 

Sound my words sadly to thine ear 7— 

MEDEA. 

’Tis nought— 

My boys, my boys alone were in my thought. 

JASON. 

Cheer thee!—For these all tenderest care have I. 
MEDEA. 

I will.—Thy words, I doubt not, nor deny; 

Women are women—and to tears were born. 

JASON. 

Yet o’er these children, why so strangely mourn ? 
MEDEA. 

I bore them!—When I heard thee pray the Gods 
To give them life, a dread came o’er my soul, 

If this should be, or no.—But of the things 

That brought thee hither, some we have spoken, now 

The rest I shall remember. Fare thee well! 

Banished this land, so doth it please the King, 

Better shall I be thus, I feel it well, 

Than tarrying here this royal house and thee 
Daily to view, a hated thing when seen, 

And hostile to the race. Hence straight will I— 

Seek thou of Creon’s love that these may dwell 
Here in this land, where thou canst guard them welL 
JASON. 

How I shall thrive, I doubt; yet will assay— 


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88 IPBCIMBN8 FROM THE GREEK TRAGEDIANS 


MEDEA. 

Entreat thy bride, thee will she not gainsay, 

In their behalf her father's grace to pray. 

JASON. 

Entreat I will, and trust her voice to win, 

For yielding ever is the woman's sin!— 

MEDEA. 

I too thy suit to aid, will send her gifts 

Excelling all of beautiful or rare 

That mortal eye hath seen. A thinner robe 

Than woven ether, and a golden crown 

My boys shall bear her—speed ye, then, oh! speed 

Hither to bring, my maids, that royal weed. 

Not once shall she be, but ten thousand fold 
Happiest of brides—thee, best of men, to gain, 

And these immortal vestments to acquire 
The which of yore my grand-sire Helius gave 
A glory to his race! Bear ye, my sons, 

This dowry to her—and while she doth live 
Ne'er will she blame, I think, the gauds I give. 

JASON. 

Why wrong thyself, oh, fond one ?—Dreamest thou, then, 
The royal house so void of robes of price— 

Of gold so void ?—Be wise and send them not; 

For if she list my prayers, as list she must, 

Gold shall not bend her more than these, I trust. 
MEDEA. 

Tell't not to me! Gifts win the gods; they say— 

And gold more potent than ten thousand tongues 
It eloquence to men—the luck, I say, 

Is her's—for her these gifts the God shall bless. 

New is her royal state.—I would avert 
By my life's loss their exile—how much more 
By gold—gold only!—Enter then the house, 

My children; supplicate, implore, I say, 

Your sire's new bride, my mistress much revered, 

Your exile to annul—then give the weeds! 

For this imports it most, that she accept 
Herself the garments. Haste, and bring ye back, 

Your mother’s joy, all blessings on your track! 

CHORUS.-STROPHE I. 

My hopes are past and flown, that these should live— 
All past and flown!—E’en now they go to slaughter! 
And she, great Creon's daughter, 

That fair and hapless bride, 

The gorgeous gifts receiving, 

And lured by thoughtless pride, 

Around her locks the golden chaplet weaving, 

All, all too late, 

Shall find in those dread gifts a fearful fate. 

ANTISTROPHE I. 

The charms shall win her, and the subtle grace 
Of that unearthly veil so strangely beaming, 

To don the crown gold-gleaming. 

But in the realms beneath 
That bride shall clasp her lover, 

/ For lo! the net of death 
Is darkly wound below, around, above her.— 

Lo! the dread gloom 
Inevitable presage of the tomb! 


STROPHE II. 

Oh! thou wretch, ill-omened wooer 
Of this youthful princess fair, 

Couldst thou see the golden hair, 

Stained with slaughter’s color dread, 

Of thine infants!—couldst thou mark 
The avenging fury dark, 

Sure and silent still pursue her, 

Whom thy guilty love would wed. 

ANTISTROPHE II. 

Oh! thou mother, sad and tearful, 

Who shalt lift thy ruthless knife 
To cut short the infant life, 

Which thou gavest.—Oh! I mourn—■ 

For that thou wert maddened first 
By this bridal bed accurst— 

Movest thy bitter doom and fearful, 

Whom thy lord had left forlorn. 

preceptor— [Entering.] 
Mistress, thy boys from banishment are free— 

Thy gifts right joyously the royal bride 
Received—henceforth 'tis peace to thine and thee ! 


preceptor. 

Wherefore stand'st thou, thus deject and pale, 
When all goes well—why turn thy cheek away 
As though my words did grieve thee, mistress, say? 
MEDEA. 

Alas! 

PRECEPTOR. 

That suits not with the news I hear. 

MEDEA. 

Alas! and yet alas !— 

PRECEPTOR. 

And can it be 

My news is evil, which I thought so fair? 

MEDEA. 

What thou hast said is said—I blame not thee. 

PRECEPTOR. 

Why then thy lids cast down, and weep so sore T 
MEDEA. 

Much cause have I, old man, to sorrow more. 

The gods have crowned my wishes to my wo. 

PRECEPTOR. 

Courage—thy sons shall yet thy foes o'erthrow. 

MEDEA. 

Ere that, their corpses to the grave will go. 

PRECEPTOR. 

Not thou alone art from thy children torn— 

Lightly 'tis best to bear what must be borne. 

MEDEA. 

This will I do. But go thou in the while 
And, for the day that is, their wants provide. 

My children—oh! my children—ye have still 
A country and a home, wherein to dwell 
Bereft for ever of a mother's care, 

Far, far from wretched me. For I must go 
To distant lands, past hope your love to enjoy. 


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THE MANIAC, 


89 


Be happy in your happiness, and proud 
Your bridal beds, and chosen brides to tend. 

And raise your hymeneal torches high. 

Oh! wretched that I am, and stem of will !— 

In vain, my children, have I given ye suck, 

Toiled for ye vainly—and in vain been rent 
By bitterest pangs, which only mothers know. 

Fool that I am!—and I had hopes on you, 

Most fond and many—that ray age should be 
Fed by your hands, by yours my body entombed, 
Honored of men, and envied. They have flown, 
Sweet hopes!—For ’reft of you, my only joy, 

Most grievous and accurst my life shall be. 

And ye, my little ones, will never more 
Behold your mother, tom from her for aye! 

Wo! wo!—why look ye out from your dear eyes 
On me, my babes 7 Why smile on me so sweet 
This last—last smile 7 Alas! how shall I do it 7 
My heart is gone, when I behold those eyes 
Blissful and beaming. No! it cannot be ! 

Farewell my plots of old. Hence will I bear—■ 

For hence—my little ones !—for how should I, 

The sire of these to torture, rend myself 
With tenfold pangs7 Farewell, my plots—I say!— 
And yet, how bear it 7 How become a scorn 
And mocking to my foes, unpunished all 7 
All may be borne, save this—a slave to be 
Effeminate and dastardly and tame !— 

Go in! go in, my children ! Who would not 
Bear in my fearful sacrifice a part, 

Let him take heed !—fails not this hand of mine !— 
Hold! hold!—my spirit yet—this deed of blood 
Oh! do it not! spare them, hapless that thoa art, 

Thy children spare, who on some foreign soil 
let, yet may live to soothe thee with their love !— 
No! By the everlasting fiends of Hell! 

I swear it!—Never, never shall it be said 
That I, Medea, left my children here 
A pity, and a laughter to my foes ! 

Their Fate cries out that they must fall .'—and I, 

The mother who them bore—needs must be so ?— 
Will slay them! This predestined was of yore, 

And shall not be averted.—Lo! she stands 
Becked in the nuptial robes, and crowned to die— 

To die!—Fair bride—young princess!—be it so— 

I knew it—for I had a rood of wo, 

And these my foes a sadder path shall go, 

To Hell, before me!—Yet would I behold— 

Yet speak unto my children—yet once more! 

Give, give your mother those dear hands again— 
Embrace me !—dearest hands, and roseiest lips, 

Fair forms, and noble features of my babes— 

M *y ye be blest f—But there—beneath the sod— 

Sent thither by your father!—Oh, sweet face— 

And softest skin, and breath moBt balmy!—Oh f 
My babes, my babes .’—Depart—I con no more— 

I cannot look on ye.—My wrongs prevail. 

I know the ills I do, and yet must on. 

For wroth than reason bears a mightier sway 
And guides to deadly sin all mortal clay. 

[Exit, in order to kill her children .] 

11 


I Original. 

THE MANIAC. 

PART I. 

“ Sister, whose miniature is that I have seen 
you wear since my return ? Let me see it, 
will you ?” 

“ Ah, brother! suppose noyv I should tell you 
it is my lover’s—and then to tease you, should 
say I could not let you see it !” 

“ Oh! if had but suspected that , I should 
have been still more curious, and perhaps should 
have caught a sly look at it when yon were not 
mistrusting me. But come, I don’t feel in a 
mood to-night for showing you how good a 
lawyer I am; so, dear sister, just take it from 
your belt and let me gaze upon its beauty. If I 
am to have a brother-in-law, it is no more than 
right that I should kuow how he is to look.” 

“ Well done, Henry! If every thought of 
this miniature did not make me so sad, I should 
be more than half tempted to carry on the joke, 
you seem to take it so easily. But I cannot— 
here it is. Let your eyes feast upon its 
charms.” 

“ Ah, Louise ! a lady ! Now I suppose I must 
take care of my susceptible heart, lest it should 
lose itself in this long, fixed gaze.—What a noble 
brow! so lofty, so pure! And that eye—’tis 
matchless! • One to keep embalmed for dreams 

I of fevered sleep.* Whoever painted this must 
have more than done justice to the original. 
Yet, it seems to me I have seen such an eye- 
yes, and a face that resembled this. Who can it 
be ? Tell me, Louise, have I ever seen the 
original 7” 

“Have you ‘ever seen her?’ Oh, yes! 
many, many, many times. Hour after hour you 
have listened—yet no—Henry, you never have 
seen her as she is represented there. But do 
you not remember who were our best, kindest, 
and most intimate neighbors when we lived at 

M-? Hare you forgotten Anna Van Alstien 

—‘ our sweet little Anna,’—as you used to call 
her?” 

“ No, Louise! but it is a long time since I 
have thought of her. And even if it were not, 
you cannot wonder that I did not recognize in 
this polished, interesting, intellectual looking 
lady, the charming little Anna, who, the last 
time I saw her, affectionately twined her arms 
around my neck—imprinted a long innocent kiss 
upon my lips, while with tears in her eyes she 
said—* Henry must not forget Louise and Anna 
when he is away to college.’ You know you 


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THE MANIAC* 


do 


and she were then but twelve years old, and I 
have never seen her since; though it was the 
remembrance of her which made me think I 
might have seen the original of this miniature. 
Strange things must have happened since then ! 

I should like to know her history. But, Louise, 
you are weeping! Come, dry your tears, and 
tell me what became of 4 our Anna.’ Is 9he not 
still living ? Come, sit beside me and disclose 
the whole.” 

44 Oh, Henry ! you too would weep, if you had 
loved her as I loved her, and could see her now. 
She is indeed living—but the ‘life of life’ has 
fled. She is a poor suffering maniac.” 

“A maniac? Alas! my dear sister, could 
any thing on earth have so blighted her peace as 
to destroy her reason? When I knew her, it 
might well be said of her, she was- 

4 Elate and joyona as the lark, when Urat it enure on high, 
Without a shadow in its path, a cloud upon its aky.' 

What dark pall could have been thrown over 
her light spirit that should thus wring the heait 
with agony, and drink even the dregs of reason 
from her brain ? Sister, tell me—tell me all, for 
I am most deeply interested.” 

“ Well, I will try. You know we remained at 

M- only two years after you left home. 

About the time we came here, Mr. Van Alstien 
with his family, moved to Philadelphia. It was 
a bitter hour that parted us; for, young as we 
were, we felt the loss we should sustain in being 
separated. We knew not how to live apart, for 
we had grown up, as it were, iu each other’s 
arms. You remember we were of the same age, 
our birth-day the very same. Twin-born and 
twin-educated, how could we be divided thus ? 
But this we had to learn by sad experience, 
though we vowed like lovers to render the 
absence less desolate by long and frequent 
letters. And for more than three years we 
faithfully kept our promises. But we were very 
differently situated; I, in this quiet retreat, this 
happy cottage-home—and she amid the fashiona¬ 
ble splendors, and the unsatisfying gayeties of a 
city life. She had every advantage of public 
institutions, and private instructors. Her mind 
was highly cultivated, and at seventeen she was 
an accomplished, an exceedingly interesting 
young lady. Besides this, she was eminently 
beautiful. This miniature, dear brother, is 
perfect. The artist did not (as you seem to 
suppose,) flatter in the least. No, not in the 
least! and when I look at it, and think of her as 
she was then, 1 cannot but exclaim— 


4 Blest be that art which keeps the absent near. 

The beautiful unchanged— from Time’s rude theft 

Guards the fresh tint of childhood’s polished brow— 

And when love yields its idol to the tomb 

Doth snatch a copy.’ 

And this is a true and perfect ‘copy.’ It was 
taken about two months before she was eighteen. 
At that time she wrote me one of her long, inte¬ 
resting letters; and towards the close, in a mys¬ 
terious sort of a way, she said— 4 Louise, I am 
particularly engaged at present. I cannot tell 
you how until I see you. This is the only 
secret I ever kept from you in my life, for you 
know you are ray 44 twin-sister,” and have always 
had full possession of all my thoughts. But I 
am schooling myself now to keep this, though it 
might be said in six words. Have I raised your 
curiosity any! Well, I hope to get through so 
as to fulfil my promise, and spend our eighteenth 
birth-day with you. Oh, I can scarcely wait ’till 
it shall arrive, I am so anxious to fly to your 
arms.’ 

44 This, you may imagine, did raise my curi¬ 
osity in no small degree; and I thought of many 
things, but of course could decide upon none. 
Mamma supposed she was to be married. But 
she had never told me of any actual engagement, 
though she had several times spoken in very high 
terms of a young lawyer who had paid her a good 
deal of attention. I could not believe she would 
be married and tell me nothing of it. However, 

I was soon to know; and in my anxiety to see 
her—to have her with me once more, I almost 
forgot my curiosity and its cause. The 20th of 
June, you recollect, was the memorable day. 
She had particularly requested that I would 
invite no company, and this corresponded with 
my own desires; for I was too selfish to share 
my felicity with others at such a time. I wanted 
her all to myself. On the 19th, I arranged all 
little matters so as to render our country-place as 
pleasant a9 possible. I renewed the flowers in 
the va9es—adjusted the honeysuckles that cov¬ 
ered the windows, so that we might enjoy their 
richest perfume—and, in short, I busied myself 
all day long in anxiously doing nothing. The 
sun went down, and as yet no Anna came. I 
could content myself no where. Was I to be 
disappointed? I wandered through the yards, 
and garden, and even walked half a mile up the 
road to see if she might not be coming. At 
length, I clasped her in my arms, I pressed her 
to my heart, and we mingled our tears of joy 
together. Oh, never were two fond hearts more 
closely bound than oure! You may, perhaps, 
imagine our feelings, but I cannot describe them. 
Her father and mother were with her; and there 


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THE MANIAC. 


was nothing to check our flow of soul, or cast a 
shads upon our heart-felt happiness—and I be¬ 
lieve our eighteenth birth-day was decidedly the 
happiest day of our lives. It was one I shall 
remember as long as I remember any thing. 
Anna was the same dear, kind, affectionate sister 
as when we parted more than three years before. 
Her heart was unaltered, though her mind was 
much more highly cultivated, and she was more 
eminently beautiful—or at least, her beauty was 
of a different cast. 

'Lit from within was her noble brow, 

A* an urn whence n»y» from a lamp mnv flow; 

Her younp clear cheek had a changeful hue, 

A* if ye might see how the soul wrought through ; 

And every flash of her ferveot eve 
Seemed the bright wakening of Poeay.’ 

“And then her soul was so full of music—she 
was passionately fond of it, and had an exquisite 
voice. It was actually as I one day told her: 

' The spirit of song in her bosom's cell 
Dwelt as the odors in violets dwell: 

Or as the sounds in iEolian strings, 

Or in aspen leaves the quiverings; 

There, ever there , with the life enshrined. 

And waiting the call of the faintest wind.’ 

44 The day passed delightfully. How could it 
be otherwise? But I will only give you one 
incident. In the afternoon, we were speaking of 
a fondness for music, when mamma requested 
me to play and sing the piece I had promised 
her she should hear when Anna came. It was a 
birth-day ballad—a beautiful little thing I had 
learned for the occasion, but which I had for¬ 
gotten until thus reminded. Anna stood beside 
me at the piano. When I had finished, the 
tears stood in her eyes—she threw her arms 
around me—kissed me affectionately, and ex¬ 
pressed many warm thanks for the unexpected 
pleasure I bad given her. Then suddenly recol¬ 
lecting herself, she reseated me, and said— 4 Sit 
•till, Louise, ’till I return.* She flew to her 
room, and in a moment returned, aUd placing 
this chain upon my neck, she said— 

44 4 Dear sister, I have no birth-day ballad for 
you, but accept this, as a birth-day present: wear 
it, and let it often remind you of the love of your 
absent Anna.’ It was this miniature—a precious 
gift! We were admiring the taste and perfect 
correctness with which it was executed, when 
Mrs. Van Alstien remarked— 4 Anna, I thought 
you gave me that.’ 4 Oh,’ said Anna, ‘that’s the 
secret!’ ‘Secret!’ said I, catching at the word 
—for I had been so elated with her presence that 
I had not thought to ask about it before. 

44 4 Yes, yes!’ said she, interrupting me, 4 1 
know what you mean. It is all the same. Par¬ 
don me, mamma, that I have kept it from you 
until now. I only wanted to give you a surprise. 


9t 


I will explain. When I consented to have my 
likeness taken for you, I persuaded papa to allow 
me to have another one painted at the same time, 
and to keep it a secret, that I might to-day present 
it to Louise, if permitted to see her. So now, 
dear sister, please keep it, and wear it for my 
sake. You will always see me smiling upon 
you; for when it was taken, I was so excited 
with the prospect of being with you, that I 
believe I was actually silly, and did not give the 
artist one seriouB look.’ 

44 Thus we passed the day, singing, and 
talking, and enjoying ourselves. The next 
morning, Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstien left us, to 
spend three months in journeying, and then to 
return and take Anna with them home to Phila¬ 
delphia. Oh ! how shall I tell you of those three 
happy months ? They were so full of pleasure 
and of interest, that I know not how to tell you. 
We lived in the light of each other’s smile, were 
mutual confidants, and I trust each was some¬ 
what benefited by the experience of the other. 
I have said she wrote me something about a 
young lawyer who was very attentive to her. 
Now, she told me of all her intercourse with him. 
His name was Montone. 

44 One sultry day, we had dismissed our needles, 
given up all ideas of work, and with an amusing 
book languidly sauntered out to the arbor. I 
was reading a story which Anna had wished to 
hear, when she begged me, in justice to the story, 
not to read any more, for she could not listen. 
Her mind would wander to other scenes, and Bhe 
could not control it—so I closed the book. 

44 4 Louise,’ said she, 4 we have an arbor like 
this at home, just like this, only differently 
situated. Once last summer, on very much 
9uch a day as this, I ornamented it with my 
drawing apparatus; but being too listless to do 
any thing, I threw myself back into the corner, 
and was soon lost in a dreamy revery. How long 
I indulged myself thus I know not; but I was 
aroused by the entrance of Montone. He seated 
himself beside me, was very social, and beguiled 
the hours with innocent gayety. At length our 
conversation assumed a more serious aspect. 
He became eloquent, and poured into my willing 
ear such passionate words, such earnest entrea¬ 
ties as might melt the coldest heart, much less 
one as ardent as his own. I could not answer 
him—but I felt that I loved him. I know not 
why, but the tears filled my eyes, I could not 
look upon him. I gave him my hand, and was 
about to speak, when all our romance (perhaps 
you will call it,) was ended by a summons to 
tea. I should have told you all this, dear sister, 


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92 


THE MANIAC. 


in my next letter, but there had been no promises 
made on either side; only an expression of feeling 
on his part, and a silent reception of it on mine, 
and I did not then exactly feel that we were 
engaged. We understood each other, and this 
was all. He has visited me frequently, and 
waited on me constantly ever since. I have 
every reason to believe that he considers it an 
engagement, not only from his conduct, but from 
his conversation. And surely it is; for every 
thing has been done to render it so, except the 
mere formal promise from the lips. And what is 
this, when hearts are bound, and actions and 
looks are intelligible without words ? The eve¬ 
ning before I left home he spent with me, and 
we had communion of heart with heart, a ming¬ 
ling of soul with kindred soul. The hours flew 
on swiftest wings. When he rose to depart, he 
took my hand affectionately, and said— 

M * My dearest Anna, it will be a long three 
months before I shall see you again. I shall be 
lost without you, and long—oh, how earnestly! 
for your return. May you be happy; but, in 
the midst of your happiness, forget not your 
Montone !' 

444 We parted—and think you I have forgotten 
him! No, Louise ! oh, no! My heart is unal¬ 
terably his. I knew not how dearly I loved him 
until I had left him. Is it idolatry ? Ah! my 
dear sisier, would that it were chastened with 
holy, heavenly love! Would that I were a 
Christian, then I could not be an idolator!” 

Thus, with the passionate fervor of her ardent 
soul, she told me all her love. Day after day, 
and week after week, while she remained here, 
she dwelt upon his character, his disposition, his 
talents—and wished, so fervently wished that I 
could know him. She sung me the songs he 
loved ; and, in short, my dear brother, 

'Her trust is his lore wet a woman'* faith. 

Perfect, and fearing no change 'till death t* 

She was a bright, joyous being, ever full of life 
and happiness. Not a shade of care, or disap¬ 
pointment, or sorrow, had ever crossed her pure 
brow ; and had she but given her first, best affec¬ 
tions to her God, she would have seemed to me 
almost like an angel of light. Her soul was ever 
on the wing, and music seemed to float in all her 
steps. 

But the three months came round too soon- 
yes, all too soon! and she left us for her own 
loved home. Oh ! that she bad staid until now 

then it is possible she might have been happy 
still. We parted—as fond sisters always part— 
in tears, but with high hopes of meeting again 
soon, as I had promised to spend the latter part 


of the last winter with her. She was to write to 
me in two weeks after her return. More than a 
month passed before the letter came; and then, 
such a Utter! Oh! how it wrung my heart. 
But I will read it to you, and let you judge for 
yourself of my feelings and her condition: 

* Mr Dearest Louisa: —I have not forgotten you. Oh ! do 
not think so * moment. Such m suspicion would kill me. I 
know it is more than two weeks since you have been expect- 
insr my promised letter, but I could not—no, 1 could not writ*. 
Would that I had remained with you, and never, never re¬ 
turned to this dreaded place. Oh! how shall I write—how tell 
you that desolation has laid his wasting hand upon my spirit ? 
Oh, that you were here to soothe me, to comfort me, to prey 
for me ! Can you believe it 1 I returned to find all my bright 
prospects darkened, my fondly cherished hopes blighted, with¬ 
ered, crushed—and him to whom I had given my heart’s best 
oflfections, my soul's warmest love, unfeeling, cold, faithless ! 
Ob, my soul, how canst thou bear it! Ye», my own dear sis¬ 
ter, in less than one week, Montone will be the husband of 
another. The husband! ’tis a bitter word—for oh, how ten¬ 
derly, how dearly, how passiAnately have 1 loved him, and 
given him all my heart! But now my soul Is dark. A whole 
month has passed away since I first learned the strange tale of 
my own misery. But I have not wept. No, Louisa! my brain 
is ou fire. I cannot weep. I shall soon he crazed. I know—I 
know I shall. Oh, pity me! Come to me ! pray for me! You 
have a Father in Heaven who will listen to your cry ;—but I 
—alas, I have none. Would that I had heeded your kind, your 
beseeching entreaties; then might I have found pence. But I 
adored a mortal in Qod's place—n proud, inconstant mortal, 
who has deceived and forsaken me. But I cannot, cannot 
write. Louise, my own dear sister, will yon not leave, for 
nwhile, your happy home, and come to your desolate Anna ? 
My heart is breaking. My spirit sinks beneath the stroke— 
and I must see you once more. Come and press your kind 
hand upon my throbbing brow; relieve my burdened heart 
with your blest sympathy; and bring—oh! briug something 
that will unseal the fountain of my bitter teara. Then, theu, 
iny sister, 

* I will lay down like a tired child, 

And weep away this life of woe!' 

* t long to see you. I cannot wait patiently. Come, oh! 
come to the desolate home of your heart-broken Anna. My 
fond, indulgent parents send much love to you all, and unite 
in my earnest entreaty that you will come soon. 

‘ Ever your affectionate sister, 

‘ ANNA TAN ALSTIBN.” 

I shall never forget the hour rhat brought 
me this letter. It was an hour of anguish. My 
heart bled within me, and I longed to fly to her 
even as on the wings of the wind* But in this 
desire I was overruled, I was at that time alone, 
and was to be so for a week. I could neither 
leave home, nor have any one to accompany me 
on such a journey. But as soon as I could con¬ 
trol my feelings sufficiently to do any thing, I 
sat down and wrote to Anna, assuring her of my 
sympathy, and that as soon as possible, I should 
be with her—peihapa in two weeks. I arranged 
my wardrobe, and prepared every thing for the 
journey. At the end of a week, our dear parents 

returned from their visit to M - . Oh, how 

heartily did I welcome them ! 1 soon gave them 

Anna's letter, and told them what I bad done. 
We wept together in unfeigned grief. Papa said 
he would accompany me; but he feared from 
Anna's natural disposition, her ardent tempera¬ 
ment, and sensitive spirit, that we should find 
her deranged, if indeed she had survived the 
stroke. 

The next week I hastened to her with all 


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THE MANIAC. 


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the anxiety of a sister’s love. Yes! I sought 
her—and I found her—but oh! such a meeting! 
Alas! alas! my dear brother, my worst fears 
were realized. The intensity of her feelings had 
fixed upon her a deep insanity. Her poor, heart¬ 
broken mother met me with open arms, pressed 
me to her bosom, and wept long and bitterly ere 
•he could command herself so as to speak. 
Then she told me of her sorrow. 

44 She 9aid when they returned home, Anna 
wa9 full of life and animation. She had never 
been happier; and for three days, was almost 
constantly employed in receiving calls from her 
friends. On the third evening, while several were 
in, a dear friend came to Mrs. Van Alstien’s 
room, and told her of Montone’s desertion, of 
his engagement, and intended marriage. She 
said she could not tell Anna herself, and her 
friends all thought her mother could do it better 
than any one else. It was a sudden stroke; but 
it revealed to her the mystery of his absence, for 
she had wondered much why he did not call. 
How could she make it known to the unsuspect¬ 
ing Anna? But it might not longer be delayed. 
After all had left, she went to the parlor, and 
found Anna reclining upon the sofa, apparently 
very sad. She asked her if she were sick, or 
only fatigued. 

44 4 Ob !’ said Anna, 4 1 hardly know what I 
am. I believe I have lost my spirits. I have 
been wondering why Montone does not call. I 
thought he must be out of town, but I hear he 
is at home. What do you think can be the 
reason of his absence at this time ?' 

‘‘‘Perhaps he does not choose to call,’ said 
her mother. 4 You know three months is a long 
time to be gone. Do you not think he may have 
forgotten you, or, at least, ceased to feel an inte¬ 
rest in you V 

44 Anna sprang from her seat, the color fled 
from her face, and she wildly exclaimed— 4 Spare 
me, mamma, spare me! Oh! do not insult, de¬ 
grade him by the suspicion. No ! he cannot be 
false. I will not believe it.* 

44 Slowly but surely did the truth steal in upon 
her heart. She neither spoke nor wept; but 
clasped her hands firmly together, and the glassy 
Calmness of her eye whispered of despair. At 
length she fainted. It was a long, long time ere 
she returned to consciousness; and when she 
did, it was but to a renewal of her misery. From 
that time she refused all company, kept her room, 
or wandered about the house without aim or obejct, 
a desolate, broken-hearted being. She could 
not 9it down and converse with any one. She 
ate little, and slept less; and the letter she wrote 


me was the only tliiiig she had attempted to do. 
Yet she retained her reason until the night of 
Montone’s marriage. Then she raved ; and had 
continued to do so ever since. At times she 
moans piteously—then suddenly springs to her 
feet, walks the room with a rapid pace, singing 
snatches of songs without the least connection, 
often making a complete jargon. When I first 
entered her room, she was walking and singing 
in this way. She took no notice of me, but I 
soon went to her, put my arm through her’s, 
and said persuadingly— 4 Anna, dearest, you 
must be fatigued. Come and sit down, and let 
us talk awhile.’ I gently drew her to a seat, and 
after a few common-place remarks, asked her if 
she ever knew a young lady by the name of 
Louise B— 4 Know her ?* said she, grasp¬ 
ing my hand, 4 know her ? yes, yes! she was my # 
guardian angel. I loved her too well, and she 
died! They will not tell me where she is 
buried, lest I should go and live upon her grave. 
And I would—I would— 

1 I’d shoot tho fill f of death ! 

Truck the pure apirit where no chain can bind— 

Where the heart's boundless love if* reel may find— 

Where the atorm tends no breath!” ’ 

She raised her voice higher and higher, until 
it ended in a loud and piercing shriek. I had 
nerved my heart with unwonted strength, that I 
might meet her calmly ; but I was overpowered, 
and wept. She looked up pitifully and said— 

44 4 Do you weep ? do you weep ? Oh! tears 
have been my ruin. I never weep now.* 

44 She pressed her hands upon her throbbing 
brow, went to her bed, and lay down quietly. 

I remained three weeks, and scenes like these 
were of daily recurrence. I could not make her 
know me. She called me Mary. I talked to 
her of Montone ; but whenever I mentioned his 
name, she would make me whisper; and would 
tell me how he died in her arms, and she hid 
him, and no one else knew where he was. Once 
when I spoke of him, she whispered— 

44 4 Hush ! hush ! I will tell you how he calls 
me. I heard him sing it.’ Then in a low, plain¬ 
tive tone, she sung— 

' Come, come, come ! 

Long thy fainting rouI hnth yearned 
For the atep that n’er returned ; 

Loop thine anxious ear hath listened, 

And thy watchful eye hath glistened, 

With the hope whose parting strife 
Shook the flower-leaves from thy lUe. 

Now the hoavy day is done, 

Home awaits thee, wearied one! 

Come, come, come!’ 

44 1 left her, and came home. For a time I 
heard from her frequently, and she still remained 
perfectly deranged, though she became more 
quiet. She had wasted away to a mere shadow, 

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THE MANIAC 


was very pale, and her large, lustrous eyes were 
filled with an unnatural fire. She cannot possi¬ 
bly live long unless restored to reason, and of 
this I fear there is now no hope. But it is nearly 
four months since I have heard from her, and I 
am utterly at a loss what to think. Alas! Henry, 
I fear she is destroyed—is ruined for this life and 
the next. Few have been more highly favored, 
more gifted, more tenderly loved. But she was 
ever too well pleased with the pleasures and 
fascinating enjoyments of earth. She always 
intended to seek a better inheritance, a higher, 
holier, and more enduring source of joy. Often 
and often have I witnessed the burning tears 
which came up from her heart’s secret urn, 
when the soft breathings of the Holy Spirit whis¬ 
pered of the deep sin of neglecting her immortal 
* soul; and then she would plead with me to 
petition for her at the Mercy Seat, and promise, 
solemnly promise to seek the favor of God—to 
devote herself to His service. But, like many 
others, she rested in her resolutions, and did 
nothing more. She was indeed a bright flower, 
blooming in uncommon loveliness, cherished 
with idolizing care, watered with the dews of 
affection, and fanned by the breath of love. But 
a chill wind swept suddenly over her, blasted her 
beauty, embittered her sweets, and crushed her 
to the earth. I cannot tell you how dearly I 
loved her, how ardently I sought her society, or 
how highly I prized her friendship. It was more 
than words can express—but is it not all ended 
for ever? Is she not past enjoyment, or happi¬ 
ness, or interest ? And she has no hope for 
better things to come. Dear, precious Anna, 
my own sweet sister, what would I not give to 
restore you to reason—if it were only for a little 
while, that you might consecrate yourself to 
Christ, feel His preciousness, and obtain a pass¬ 
port at Heaven’s gate ! But, alas ! I fear it may 
not be. Oh, my dear brother! think how in¬ 
tensely she suffers, with no prospect of relief, 
and chide me not for my tears. I must weep. 
Is it not heart-rending to think of her thus ?” 

“Yes, yes, my dear sister, it is indeed heart¬ 
rending, soul-withering. You may weep, but it 
can do no good.” 

' Alan! alas! that hopes like her’s, so gentle and no bright, 

The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should 
blight,— 

Bow down her fair, bat fragile form,—her brilliant brow ; 

o’ercast, j 

And make her beauty, like her bliaa, a shadow of the pant! | 
Thus, tbu«, too oft the traitor, man, repays fond woman’s 1 
truth; 

Thus blighting in bis wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth : 
And sad it is in griefs like these, o’er visions loved and lost. 
That the truest and the tendcresl heart mun always suffer 
most.” ’ 


PART II. 

The next week after Miss Louise B— had 
related this sad account to her affectionate 
brother, he surprized her by saying that his time 
for recreation and the enjoyment of the social 
converse of his beloved parents and sister was 
almost at an end. She exhausted all her powers 
of argument and persuasion to induce him to 
protract his visit, but in vain. He told her he 
feared he had already indulged himself too long, 
and however much he and they might desire it 
otherwise, the voice of duty was imperious ; and 
in two days he must seek for himself a new home, 
and endeavor, by establishing himself in his pro¬ 
fession, to be of some use io the world. 

Henry B-was a young man of fine talents, 

who had just concluded his course of studies 
with an eminent lawyer in a distant city, and was 
now ready to enter upon the practice of his pro¬ 
fession. His mind was of an exalted bearing, 
and I have seldom looked upon a countenance 
more full of intellect. His dark, kindling eye, 
and the soul-like melody of his voice could but 
convince you that the flowers of poetry were in 
his imagination a perpetual blossoming. He 
seemed formed to be a great man in the world’s 
estimation, and yet he knelt not to fame, and 
cared not for the world’s applause. The holy 
light of pure religion had found its way into the 
silence of his heart, and dwelt there, a safeguard, 
filling it with a music that can never die. 

He had been leisurely spending a few days at 
home; and though so delightfully situated, so 
agreeably surrounded by a!l that was engaging— 
by friends who loved him, and sought only his 
best interests—yet he felt that he was now called 
upon to begin the world upon his own responsi¬ 
bility, and that idleness must have no place in 
his creed or his practice. He had resolved to 
travel some, to seek out a home for himself, 
where he might honor his profession both as a 
lawyer and a Christian. 

The two days specified to his beloved sister 
passed rapidly away; and with a suffused eye, 
but a calm reliance upon a higher power, and a 
bright hope for the future, he bade adieu to his 
childhood’s home, and his dearestfriends, promis¬ 
ing to be a faithful correspondent wherever his 
lot might be cast. He wandered onward, influ¬ 
enced by one thing and another, until at last he 
found himself called upon to visit Philadelphia. 

The sad account his sister had given him of 
Anna Van Alstien, the friend of his youth, the 
companion of his early days, the best and dearest 
friend of his beloved sister, now came to his re- 


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THE MANIAC. 


95 


membrance with its full force; and he deter¬ 
mined to visit the family, if it were possible to 
find them, and know their present situation. 

As soon as convenient after his arrival in the 
city, he sought out their place of residence, 
called, and was immediately recognized by her 
heart-stricken parents, though several years had 
passed since he had seen them. He could not 
but perceive how grief for the situation of their 
only child had bowed down their hearts in a deep 
sorrow and, prematurely brought upon them the 
frosts of age. He dared not inquire after Anna, 
for he knew not whether she still raved, a misera¬ 
ble maniac, or had already entered the spirit- 
land. While he hesitated, his eyes were fixed 
upon her piano, which stood as though unused. 
Mr. Van Alstien observing it, remarked in a sub¬ 
dued voice— 

“ You are thinking of our Anna. Poor child! 

I wonder what effect your presence will have j 
upon her. «I suppose you know the melancholy ! 
history of her derangement ?” Henry assented, 
but told him they had heard nothing from her in 
about four months, and eagerly inquired her 
present situation. 

“ She is still deprived of reason,” said her 
father, “but has partially regained her health. 
When undisturbed by company or other out¬ 
ward circumstances, she is perfectly quiet and 
childlike in her whole appearance, but very sel¬ 
dom attempts to converse with any one. She 
will sit for hours with such a deep sadness upon 
her speaking countenance, as at once proves to 
us that there is anguish in her heart. She is, at 
times, somewhat cheerful, and then, slight as the 
grounds may be for such a hope, we look for¬ 
ward to the time when her fettered spirit shall 
break its bonds, and once more be free, and we 
pray that it may be soon. Oh ! it is a sad thing 
for one so full of life, and joy, and hope, so affec¬ 
tionate and beloved by all, to be crushed to the 
earth, and overcome by the heart’s agony—to 
think, (as I have often before said)— 

* To think of that fair girl whose path hnd been 

So strewed with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene! 

And whose auick glance came over as a token 

Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice 

At a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods rejoice.'— 

And then to remember what she is now; so 
desolate and heart-broken, so incapable of receiv¬ 
ing sympathy, or Counsel, or any thing that 
might bring relief—so bowed down by the sick¬ 
ness of the soul. Ob, I could weep tears of 
blood, if they might count any thing towards 
her restoration ! But, Henry, it is only an 
Almighty power that can give back her reason, 
and make her what she was.” I 


While they were conversing in this way— 
Henry, eager to know her whole melancholy 
history, and her affectionate parents as willing to 
tell it—they perceived the object of their solici¬ 
tude slowly coming in from the garden, with a 
bunch of flowers in each hand, which seemed 
momentarily to please her fancy; for as she 
gazed upon them, a sad smile passed over her 
wan face. Mrs. Van Alstien, in much agitation, 
remarked to Henry— 

“ A strange fear lies heavy at my heart ! 
Your countenance, tone of voice, and whole 
appearance, remind me continuaily of Montone. 
Anna will probably come immediately to this 
room, and if the resemblance should strike her 
as it does me, what must be the effect ? God 
grant it may be good !” 

As she ceased speaking, Anna entered the 
door. Henry was bewildered. He knew not 
what to do. Should he sit still and await the 
result ? or should he rise and greet her as an old 
friend, the companion of his childhood, as he 
should certainly do, if she possessed her reason ? 
He half rose—then fell back irresolutely into his 
seat—then rose up and approached her with the 
extended hand of a warm welcome. A deep 
flush passed swiftly over her marble cheek, the 
flowers fell from her trembling hands, she leaned 
against the door, and gazed upon him with a look 
so wild and sad, that hi9 manly spirit shook within 
him. Still he extended his hand, and in a cheer¬ 
ful voice, said— 

“ Will not Miss Anna speak to Henry B — f 
the friend and companion of her childhood?” 

But she shrank from him, still gazing into his 
face, while many changes passed quickly over 
her brow, and cheek, and eye. At length, sub¬ 
dued by some strong passion in her inmost soul, 
she threw herself at his feet, and shed “such 
tears as rain the hoarded agonies of years from 
the heart’s urn.” Alarmed for her safety, they 
raised her from the floor, but she was weak and 
powerless; and with a heart as still, a face as 
pale a9 death could make it, they laid her upon 
a couch, insensible as clay. Physicians were 
summoned, and perseveringly was every restora¬ 
tive used which skill and ingenuity could sug¬ 
gest ; but long, and bitterly anxious* was their 
suspense, ere a motion, or a breath, or a sign of 
j life appeared. At length, with a convulsive sigh 
and a heaving chest, the shadow of death passed 
off as a voiceless dream, and the fleeting spirit 
once more resumed its sway. She glanced from 
one to another with a look of anxious inquiry ; 
but Henry avoided the gaze, fearing the effect 
: upon her weakened and bewildered mind. No 


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96 


THE MANIAC. 


one explained to her the mystery—and at last, low 
tones of wo and fear broke from her full bosom. 
Oh! it was a mournful thing to hear that voice, 
so so ft and musical, come forth in strange, dull, 
hollow tones, burdened with agony. There 
came a mist over her eyes’ wild fire, and then j 
again the crimson fled from her cheek, and the I 
breath from her lip. In bitterness of soul they 
gathered closely round her, fearing that now 
indeed she had passed off to the land of spirits. 
A sad and solemn beauty settled down upon her 
pallid face, contrasting strongly with the dark, 
rich tresses which lay in confusion around it. 
But she was not thus to pass away. Again and 
again did hope spring up in those loving, anxious 
hearts, to be quickly succeeded by trembling and 
fear. Thus passed the remainder of the day and 
the whole of the night. As the morning dawned, 
she slept; at first restlessly, as though troubled 
by an unpleasant dream, but gradually her slum¬ 
bers became gentle and peaceful, the appalling 
hue of death wore away, and those marble lips 
were touched with the rose-tints of life. She 
seemed to gather strength by her tranquil sleep, 
and hour after hour they permitted her to lie 
undisturbed. How many were the hopes and 
fears which agitated the hearts of those who lin¬ 
gered so fondly around the unconscious sleeper, 
and watched so intently for the slightest chauge! 
Would not her spirit, when that long deep sleep 
passed off, wake up from its dim lethargy—break 
its fetters—and, with reason firmly enthroned, 
once more rejoice in its freedom ? Or would 
she wake but to sink into her last, dreamless 
sleep, and leave them 

“ Without m loop to bang a hope upon V* 

What should they do to win her back to glowing 
life again ? To waken and not break the spirit 
from its mysterious thrall ? What could they 
do ? This question, of such deep, such intense 
interest to them all, was repeated again and 
again, but with no answer, for all were in the 
same dilemma. 

Henry feared to remain, yet dared not leave, 
for all seemed to think her restoration depended 
upon him. So there he watched, with lifted 
brow, and hands clasped firm, and dark eyes 
filled with prayer—the fervent prayer of a tried 
yet hoping spirit. But as hour after hour passed 
away and left the sweet sleeper still wrapt in her 
dreams, a faint o’ersliadowing dread came over 
him, and with a painful tenderness he exclaimed: 

“ Why came I here to bring to her bewildered 
mind the troubled image of that detested man? 
Why did I come ? Oh, the heart’s deep mys- 
tery! Yet grant, oh, God ! to guide me. Guide 


us all, and soon remove the cloud that rests upon 
her soul.” 

In the intensity of his feelings he had failed 
to remember the hushed whisper imposed upon 
all in the room; his voice awoke the slumberer, 
and brought her back to life. She glanced wildly 
and fearfully around, and met the gaze of those 
who bent anxiously over her with sad eyes of 
troubled thought: 

“ The hour—the scene—the intensely present rushed 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed 
At if her life would melt into th’ o'erawellmg shower# 

-She cluspc.d her hands—the strife 

Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 

Within her wakened heart so deeply wrought. 

It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 

Mit, in the rending storm, not quiver ouly, kremk /" 

But no! it was not thus to be; and with this 
burst of passionate tears, there came relief. She 
gazed upon one and another of those dear ones 
around her, until their very image was graven on 
her soul. Her deep, dark eye lost all its wild¬ 
ness, and as “faint gleams of memory dawned 
upon the cloud of dreams,” she murmured— 

“ Why is it thus ? What brought me here ? 
And why do you all look so sorrowful, and so 
anxious? Oh! I have had such a long, horrible 
dream that I am sick and faint. Mother, dear 
mother, come and bathe my throbbing brow; 
fan me, I am so weary and faint; and do not let 
these friends go away ’till I may arouse me and 
see them awhile. I shall be better soon.” 

Who shall describe the feelings that almost 
o’ermastered those fond, anxious friends at this 
moment of intense interest ? She was left for 
them to love. She was restored to life—to 
reason. Might they not now enjoy their full 
cup of bliss! Might she not again be permitted 
to mingle with them as their own dear Anna! 
Oh! fervent, importunate were the prayers 
which ascended from those trembling yet hoping 
hearts. 

Deeply interested in her welfare, several of her 
friends had lingered near, and joined in the silent 
watch. Now, noiselessly, but with eyes o’er- 
flowing in joyful tears, one after another left the 
' room until none remained, but those devoted 
1 parents, those watchful, anxious physicians, and 
the tearful, prayerful, yet hoping Henry. For 
| awhile the stricken one calmed her spirit to a 
sweet repose, that she might gather strength for 
the coming hour—the hour when memory 
| should recall the fearful past, and “life’s realities 
! press on the soul from its unfathomed depths.” 

Suspended as it were between life and death, 
she questioned closely and earnestly of the reali¬ 
ties of the past, and without reserve exposed the 
inmost sanctuary of the soul. From that hour, 
" although “ the garland of her life was blighted, 


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THE MANIAC 


97 


and the springs of hope were dried,” she calmly 
submitted to her fate, acknowledged the over¬ 
ruling hand of a mysterious Providence, and 
continually looked Upward for sustaining. And 
that same Providence—who, in the glowing sun¬ 
shine of her happy existence, had given her all 
her heart could desire of this world’s treasures, 
and who had permitted her lofty mind to be 
struck to ruin by one stroke of grief—now upheld 
her. And as she more and more felt her de¬ 
pendence upon him, with deep repentance cast 
herself unreservedly upon his mercy, he com¬ 
forted her with the Spirit’s comforting. She 
laid aside the vanities of the world, and day after 
day felt within her stricken bosom 44 the peace of 
God which passeth knowledge.” 

But what was the fate of the unprincipled 
Montone ? He had married what the world 
calls 44 a splendid woman,”—that is, wealthy, 
fashionable, and accomplished; but withal, a 
heartless coquette. For a few months all was 
smiles and gayety. But, at length remorse for 
the anguish he had caused, and the ruin he had | 
brought upon oue of the brightest of earth’s 
beings, united with the scorn and contempt in 
which be was held by those whose friendship he 
had once prized, wore upon his darkening spirit, 
and he endeavored to drown reflection in the wine- 
cup’s deepest dregs. No friendly hand was ex¬ 
tended for his rescue; and, continually reproached 
by the heartless being whose fate was united to 
his—spurned by those who had once eagerly 
sought his fascinating society—he drank deeper 
and deeper still of the intoxicating bowl, that he 
might bribe his thoughts to silence, and his heart 
to peace. But 

“The creeping poison meant 
To dull'hr* senses, fbrous'fe each burning vein 
Poured fever—lending a delicious strength 
To burst its chains,"— 

’till, tormented beyond endurance by the evil 
spirits his own imagination had created, he sunk 
a detested victim to that hiost dreadful disease, 

44 delirium tremens 

A year has passed—and where are those in 
whose fate we have become interested 1 Where 
now is the restored, the lovely Anna ? What 
has become of the affectionate and sympathizing 
Louise? And what cheers the pious heart of 
the interesting Henry ? The perusal of a letter 
written by him to his sister, will best tell the 
story—and here it is : 

** Mr DEAR SISTER LoCtW I 

Your welcome letter reached me yesterday ; and I hasten to 
answer it, lest I shalt be too late to break in upon your delight* j 
ful plans, and add some new ones to their number. I do not I 


choice meets with my warmest approbation, and you will never 
find me wauling in the affection 1 shall love to bestow upon a 
brother in-law, the husband of mv dear and only sister. It 
would gratify me much to comply with your urgent invitation, 
and be near you on the memorable evening—to share in your 
happiness—and, imprinting a brother’s warm kiss upon your 
bridal cheek, to wbh you the best of wishes. But, sister, 
though you may at first feel sadly disappointed, I think you 
will easily be reconciled, and will join heartily in my plan. 1 
will tell you what it is,—-but first let me enlist your feelings in 
my cause, by telling you a little of that wlneh deeply interest# 
me. It is of * our dear Anna’ I would speak. You koow she is 
restored to life, to health, and is even as she was in days long 
gone by. Yet, not * aa she was’—for now 

* By many a word 

Linked unto moment* when the heart was stirred— 

By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 

By the persuasion of the fervent eye 
All eloquent with child-like piety, 

By the still, calm beauty of her life,’— 

we cannot but feel that she has drawn from Heaven and heaven- 
born truth an unfaltering faith, and an undying hope, of which 
in her earlier years she knew nothing. Oh, Louise, she is all 
your fancy could picture her. all yonr heart could desire. 
Well do I know her ; and. though I have never told you this 
before, deafly, tenderly, ardently do I love her. Into her half¬ 
listening ear 1 have whispered the tale. 1 know her heart was 
once another’s, even with an idolatrous love—but her affections 
were unworthily placed. Afld when she knew it, and recovered 
from the shock so as to act, she gathered them back iufo her 
own bosom; ond now, with a chastened fervor, they are all 
mine—and Heaven's. Long and pereseveringly have I sought 
to win their wealth aud worth, continually mingling their 
sweetness with a Saviour’s love. ‘Nor in vain was that soft- 
breathing influence to eucliain the soul in gentle bonds'—and 
for weeks past our hearts have beeu knit together into one. 
She consent* to unite her destiny with mine, to bless me with 
( her continual presence. Since 1 received your last letter, ( 

!! have urged her to a speedy union. And now, dear Louise, our 
!| plan is this.—Do you and your beloved Charles dispense with 
our company, and stnud alone at the hymeneal altar ou the eve¬ 
ning you have appointed. There will be so many Other friends 
with you, that you will scarce misa us. 1 doubt not tber hours 
so full of import and of happiness will glide smoothly and 
swiftly on. The nn*t morning we wislr you to start for Phila¬ 
delphia—where, with as much speed as possible, I trust you 
will safely arrive, and we shall be ready to give you a hearty 
welcome. Then, ns soon as practicable, dear Anna and 1, at- 
I (euded by yourself and your husband, as 'bridesmaid and 
| groomsman,’ will 'speak the fitting vows!’ At the conclusion 
' of the marriage festivities here, we will accompany you home 
j to gladden the hearts of our beloved parents. Write immedi¬ 
ately In tell us, if you p least, that you accede to our proposal, 
and to satisfy the heart of 

Yoor affectionate Brother, 

He.vry.” 

All was arranged as Henry had desired ; and 
ere another month had passed, the happy bridal 
parties returned to the country to enjoy them¬ 
selves in the vine-covered cottage beneath the 
open sky. 

"The very whispers of the wind had there 
A flute-like harmony, that seemed to bear' 

Greeting from some bright shore— 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 

The melody of hearts hi heavenly air, 

Thence duly did arise : 

Lifting th’ etemaj hope, th’ adoring breath 
Of spirits not to be disjointed e'eu- by deadly 
Up to the starry skies!’’ 


People will despise their own virtues, and 
eensure their own vices, in others. No body 
laughs at the folly of another so much as a fool; 
no man believes another so little as a liar; no 
people censure the talkative more than great 
talkers. Misers daily condemn covetousnes; 
and squanderers rail at extravagance in others. 
If one lady calls the chastity of another in ques¬ 
tion, she gives strspicioft of herself .—The Rejlec~ 


doubt, my dear sister; but that you will consent to let me inter¬ 
fere e little in this matter. I ain happy to hear that your 
looked for marriage is so soon to take place. Be assured your u tor , 1750. 


17 


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98 


THE FBRRTMAN. 


Or if Inal. 

THE FERRYMAN. 

BT 9. B. BECKETT. 


What ho! my worthy ferryman, 

Thou still dost ply the oar and sail, 

Thy cheek hath still its coat of tan, 
Contracted of the sun and gale; 

We’re bustling bravely from the shore, 

The tide is fair, the wind is free— 

No reason now to strain the oar, 

Come, seat thee, ferryman, with me. 

Rememberest when I used to cross 

This stream? ’Twas weary years ago— 
Two friends, who more like brothers seemed, 
Were oft my comrades to and fro. 

One shared my fortunes, and is gone— 

I saw the sand heaped o'er his grave; 

In Santa Croce’s fervent clime 

He sleeps where pale syringes wave. 

But tidings of the other’s fate, 

Long years unheard of, would I seek ; 
Thou canst but know his look elate, 

His lofty brow, his swarthy cheek; 

If night my memory serves, ’twas he 
Who helped thee to thy present lot— 

Once known, roethinks, good ferryman. 

He were not easily forgot. 

Forget my benefactor! nay!— 

Ah, sir! a brief and sad carter 
Was his, and o’er his early doom 

Full many an eye hath dropped a tear; 
Too proud and pure in heart was he 
For the harsh code of sensual life; 

Fate drove him to its active scenes, 

Disgust withdrew him from the strife. 

His friends bereft him of his all, 

And left him to himself to brood— 

Thou well may’st judge how rank the fall 
Upon their base ingratitude! 

Ev’n she to whom his heart was given, 
Repaid him with a broken vow— 

The last of youth’s bright dreams was riven, 
And withering gloom o’erspread his brow. 

He fell! ‘The iron pierced his soul,’ 

Alas! sad proof of his decline— 

He fled for refuge to the bowl, 

And sang in praise of ruby wine; 

Madly, devotedly he quaffed, 

Yet not of those who lose all care 
In revel he—the noxious draught, 

But served to drive him to despair. 


Ho shunned the haunts of former mates, 

Yet oft when summer smoothed the sea, 

He occupied thy present seat; 

It pleasured him to chat with me, 

So he was pleased to say, and fain 
Would I speak as an old man might. 

To win him to himself again; 

’Twas bootless, far too deep the blight! 

At length I missed him; mom nor eve, 

He came to cheer my weary oar 
With kindly chat—weeks, months went by. 

He never crossed the water more! 

I sought him—none could tell his fate, 

None cared what blast might lay him low— 
They deemed him proud and desperate— 
None seemed to know, or sought to know. 

Time passed—a boisterous Autumn storm 
Had driven a brave ship on the reef, 

Near wild Leguin ; the signal peal 
Of minute guns called for relief, 

But called in vain; for, ’mid the sweep 
And thunder of the goaded waves, 

The dwellers shivering on the steep 
Beheld but hungry, yawning graves. 

And ruder roared the iron gale— 

Blue lightnings flickered through the gloom. 
And showed the crew all drenched and pale, 
And shuddering at their hopeless doom; 
Yet, ’midst that waste of death, there’s one 
Who dares the flashing surf to brave, 

He creeps along the swaying mast, 

He drops into the rising wave— 

He sinks! again he rises ! strong 
His sinewy arm doth beat the surf; 

Wild shouts burst from the eager throng. 

He wins the beach, he treads the turf! 

A line about his waist he wears, 

From wreck to cliff* ’tis soon secure. 

And by its aid the hapless crew, 

At length, in safety reach the shore; 

Save one—a weak and timid girl, 

Who piteously implores for aid; 

That brave tar swears to lose his life, 

Or rescue the forsaken maid! 

He plunges in—he reached the deck, 

He bound the lady to his side— 

A mountain surge sweeps o’er the wreck. 

Its riven fragments strew the tide! 

Its oaken ribs are beaten in 

Like reeds before that billow’s whirl, 

A fierce shriek drowns the tempest-dim. 

The last cry of that sinking girl !— 

Their struggles soon were at an end, 

For none might aid, save One above; 

That gallant sailor was thy friend, 

That maiden was his faithless love ! 


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THE DEBTOR.-THE HAPPY HOME. 


99 


Or i f 1 d a I . 

THE DEBTOR. 


BY THE LATE SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 


Tbs slave inbales the morning's healthful breeze, 
And gambols gaily o’er the verdant plain; 

But ah ! the debtor tastes no joys like these, 

But breathes the fceted atmosphere of pain. 

The slave has friends,—a wife and children dear, 
Whose fond caresses every grief dispel; 

But ah ! no friend—no wife or child is near, 

To bless the debtor's solitary cell. 

Near the sad couch on which his Emma weeps, 

Her sickly fancy paints his wasting frame; 

And from the cradle where her infant sleeps, 
Unconscious lips pronounce a father's name. 

41 Alas, poor babe! thy father hears thee not; 

In the cold jail his lonely lamp he trims, 

To wake and muse upon our hapless lot, 

The chains of Avarice clanking on his limbs. 

41 But though, my child, our eyes dissolve in showers, 
Our cheeks are strangers to the blush of shame; 

For oh! one boast, one legacy is ours— 

His spotless honor and unblemished fame." 


Original. 

THE EARLY DEAD. 

BY JEROME A. BCAYBIE. 


Ob ! why should Griefs fervor dim the eye, 

When they—the young and the lovely die; 

Ere the spirit's light and beautiful wing, 

Hath lost its freedom or coloring; 

And one triumphal, the faintest tone, 

From the low sweet song of hope is gone; 

And the rain-bow hues of Joy, no more 
Life's varied scenes are showered o'er? 

Oh ! theirs is the gift of Innocence, 

In its tender and truthful eloquence; 

With its holy Love’s deep, passionate springs, 

Ever swelling for all earth’s things— 

Bright festive bowers, 'neath skies of blue, 

Alone are spread the ravish'd view; 

Where young, glad thoughts, 'mid bloom and light, 
Go forth—like birds in their Eden-flight, 

Time's flowers yet hid from them no thorn; 

Nor is vain regret from Mirth yet born; 

Nor yet is learnt the mournful truth. 

To stifle the gushings free of youth; 

And to turn in doubt, from the smile away, 

As a wreath and lure o'er the heart’s decay! 

Then, let no tear, nor its sign, be shed, 

Where slumber in silence the Early-Dead— 

Who go, a bright and beautiful bond, 

To the sunny-sky of the Sfirit-lamd ! 


Original. 

THE HAPPY HOME. 

BY WILLIAM O. HOWARD. 


I. 

I love the quiet, sacred calm. 

That fills the pious breast; 

It is an emblem of the peace, 

Which dwells among the blest: 

The stern, conflicting cares of life, 

Like a tempestuous sea, 

May waste the fragile frame to dust; 

The spirit still is free! 

II. 

I love, when dusky night has flung 
Its mantle o’er the earth, 

And that lone hour again returns, 

Which gives to dreams their birth. 

To see the holy man of God 
Bowed at the shrine of prayer, 

His wife and smiling babes around, 

To meet the Saviour there:— 

III. 

And when the morning's rosy light 
Beams o'er the eastern hills, 

And gratitude for life and health. 

Each generous bosom fills; 

I love to see this happy group, 

Again devoutly bent, 

Seeking, in humble prayer, to give 
Their aspirations vent. 

IV. 

Oh ! if there be a paradise 
Beneath the dome above, 

'Tis in this home, this happy home, 

•Of pure, domestic love; 

The storms that wreck this wintry world, 
May rave and roar around, 

They cannot blight a flower that blooms 
Within such hallowed ground. 


SONNET. 

Ip I could think thou ever might’st be bought 
By paltry gold, I'd be no slave of thine! 

Not think so, the charm that love has wrought 
Is strong as bonds of fabled ad amine :— 

By gold I mean not the bright sterling ore, 

Stampt and imprest for marketable use. 

But all that gold can buy, with varied store 
To luxury and comfort to conduce: 

Ah! if these tempt ye, rather than desire, 

I'd spurn ye from me, as abject and base, 
Unworthy ever to assuage the fire 

Which from my heart no other shall efface: 
Sweet thought! of that no gold could buy, this song 
Shall full possession gain, and hold possession long ! 


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100 


WHEN EVENING STEALS O ’ E R ME. 


WHEN EVENING STEALS O’ER ME. 

A FAVORITE BALLAD*—POETRY BY MRS. M. 8. DANA. 



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WHEN EVENING STEALS O ’ E R ME. 


101 



The bright stars may spangle the blue vaulted sky, Oh! star of my spirit, thy soft polar ray, 

And dearly I love them, gay dwellers on high; Can warm me, and cheer me, and brighten my way, 

But the night of my soul would be starless and drear, For earth's dearest pleasures seem changeful to me, 

If the sweet morning star did not shine on me there. Like the gay dancing sunbeams that shine on the sea. 


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102 


THE SACRIFICE.-BEADTT IN AGE 


O r i f i o ■ 1. 

THE SACRIFICE. 


BY MARY S. LAWSON. 


“ Weep, I cannot. 

But my heart bleeds.” 

I stood within her father’s stately hall, 

A half forgotten, and unhonored guest, 

And shrinking from the mirth that grief appals, 

I strove to hide the anguish of my breast. 

They led the bride bedecked with gem and flower, 

To yield a hand, but not to give a heart— 

Selling the trembling girl to pomp and power— 
Rending the ties of love and life apart: 

I watched her as she breathed the faltering vow, 

I marked her quivering lip, her tears, her sighs, 

The ghastly whiteness of her marble brow, 

The weary drooping of her languid eyes. 

I turned away; the coldness of despair 
Stole o’er my bosom with a deadly thrill, 

But long endurance taught my soul to bear 

The bitter wrong, and my crushed heart was still. 

I sought my silent home, my lonely hearth, 

The shadow of my sorrow rested there! 

What now to me were all the hopes of earth 7 
My joy or sadness, there were none to share. 

I thought of happy hours for ever flown, 

When W’e in childhood sported side by side, 

But memory whispered that I stood alone— 

All vainly dreaming of another*$ bride ! 

Alas! why did I nurse the fatal flame 7 

Why was my heart so tender, yet so proud? 

Would that I ne’er had sought her love to claim, 

Or, that my pride, to gentler thoughts had bowed ! 
For well I read her young and guiltless breast, 

She loved me, and I learnt that love to shun. 

While by her father’s haughty frowns opprest, 

I scorned to steal the treasure I had won. 

For I was poor—could boast no palace fair, 

No lordly state, no wealth, or menial train: 

All I could give was love and fondest care, 

With these I sued—to him my suit was vain; 

To her I pledged no vow—of what avail, 

To dim her life, with pity, pain, and grief? 

But better far my lips had breathed the tale— 

My silent suffering brought her no relief. 

And I, unloved, unloving, pass through life, 

My restless spirit has grown calm and cold, 

While others speak of kindred, child or wife, 

While hearts to others’ hearts their cares unfold; 

No sweet affections come my path to cheer, 

And none have marked my grief, or heard my sighs,— 
How would I speak them to a stranger’s ear, 

How meet the pitying gaze of stranger-eyes 7 
But never more my lips her name may speak; 

L^t, madness burn my heart and sear my brain, 

Lest reason’s power and prayers should prove too weak, 
The voice that cries for vengeance to restrain. 
Though writhing ’neath my doom I lived to see, 

That lovely blossom droop and fude away, 


’Till kindest mercy set the angel free— 

And pitying spirits hastened her decay ! 

Ere long the yawning grave will open wide. 

To close upon this weary, weary breast; 

Another victim offered up to pride, 

Shall in earth’s quiet bosom find a rest; 

And we shall meet again where peace is found, 

To dwell in tranquil happiness at last; 

No more, beloved! by earth’s dark fetters bound— 
But in that home where naught a shade can cast. 


O r i f I n a 1. 

BEAUTY IN AGE. 

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

I. 

Youth hath its beauty,—lip and smile, 

And cheek of glowing ray, 

It strikes the admiring eye a while, 

Then fleeting, fades away. 

II. 

But Age, w ith hoary' wisdom crown’d. 

That waits its Father’s will, 

And walks in love with all around. 

Hath higher beauty still,— 

III. 

Such beauty as the saints in bliss 
Who in God’s temple shine, 

View with admiring love,—and this, 

Oh, friend revered * was thine. 

IV. 

Thine was the meek and guileless thought. 
The sigh for those that weep, 

The charity that ever sought 
Heaven’s stewardship to keep; 

V. 

Thy household care, the stranger knew, 

The poor thy bounty blest, 

Thy kindness came like healing dew, 

To cheer the loneliest breast; 

VI. 

To Friendship’s heart thy gifts were sweet. 
They sooth’d the sufferer pale, 

Even childhood’s pulses quicker beat 
Thy generous hand to hail. 

VII. 

For thee, in gushing sadness flow s 
Afflictions’s prayer, and tear, 

And Zion writes thy name with those 
Who joy’d her walls to rear. 

VIII. 

Such were thy memories, day by day, 

Thy tokens left behind, 

The beauty of thine age to stamp 
On many a grateful mind ; 

IX. 

But thou art gone, where pain and gloom 
And chastening grief are o’er, 

And where the shadow of the tomb 
Can never reach thee more. 


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EDITORS TABLE 


103 


EDITORS’ TABLE. 

The Season. —It is winter. Ooce more has the son driven 
bis alow-relaxing chariot through the autumnal equinox, and 
seemed to pause at the gates of the far-off winter. Welcome, 
thou, merry Winter! We have met thee full oft, (how often 
we will not tell thee, reader!) face to face, iu all climes, and 
under almost all conditions. In the burning southern clime, 
parched with fever, and trembling with eagerness for the tardy 
coming of the frost, we have hailed thee with the joy of a love- 
aick maiden waiting for her mate, or the spring-bird watching 
for the bursting forth of streams and flowers and songs of 
Nature’s melody—for we knew that the “Scourge ” had then 
no more power upon the exhausted frame of man. In the bril¬ 
liant and frosty North—in the gorgeous East, and amid the 
flowery wilderness of the West, we have met and embraced 
thee, without shrinking; and now, in this most magnificent 
Metropolis, we once more hail thy approach with gladness; 
for our heart is cheerful, and fall of many-colored hopes. 

After all, it is the heart within which makes all without 
bright or desolate, according to its wayward humor. The 
stream of life is still the same, though now it glasses in its 
bosom the fair blue sky and the overhanging flowers, and anon 
leaps boiliug and raging under frowning rocka, and through 
precipitous and frightful chasms; or, sinking silently away, 
loses itself for a season in the sands. Man's heart is but a 
living, rushing mirror, reflecting the hue and aspect of sur¬ 
rounding circumstances, as the stream gives back the flowers, 
the sky, the frowning rock or druoping willow. 

Come, dear one! draw close the curtains, shut out the din 
and bustle of the world, and let us hold sweet converse, as of 
old we did, around the cheerful hearthstone, before the star of 
oar motoal destiny had reached iu transit. In the idle yet 
delicious reveries of that childish hour, although a thousand 
miles of wood and glen and deep green foresu separated us, and 
neither had seen the other's face, yet we drew pictures of each 
other in our fancy, and dreamed of love and constancy and 
unutterable happiness. Dreams, dreams, dear one! and yet, 
batter than realities; for, let us but deem our waking sorrows, 
dreams, and grasp the bright things in Sleep's dominion as 
realities, and all the pain of life is gone! 

Hark! what is that? ’Tit the snow pattering with iu soft 
faet against the window, and gliding away in tears because we 
will not let it in to sparkle in the light of our fireside. Know 
you not that there is a spirit in the winter's snow and wind, 
and the beautiful rain of spring-time, and the bursting shower 
of summer, which speaks eloquently and audibly to the heart 
of man, if he will but listen and understand ? Nature has pas¬ 
sions and emotions, and tears of sorrow, and balmy sighs, and 
terrible frowns and convulsions, as of despair; and he who 
studies them carefully, and learns to trace the God of Nature 
in her physical aspect, is wiser than the clod who snores and 
oats and snores and eats again, as the star is above the lowly 
moth which bursts iu chrysalis, and then dies in the dust. 

Ah! they who have reasoned upon existence, and formed 
fhncifal theories of human happiness, hsve yet to learn that 
the passions are the keenest observers, and the imagination 
the profoundest reasoner— for they are a part of the universal 
harmony and symmetry, and cannot radically err. Reasons 
not the flower-sulk, when it watches the aspect of the sky and 
the temperature of the wiods,ere it puts forth iu tender buds? 
Does not the song-bird reason when he waiu to hear the music 
of the forest fountain and the bursting of new leaves, before 
he comes forth to build his callow nest? Aye—and reasons he 
not still more closely when, as the blasts begin to howl and 
whistle through the trees, he hies him to a summer clime, 
where song and verdure are perennial ; How oft does dim- 
aighted human reason doubt and falter, while the enthusiasm 
of instinct rushes unerringly to truth ! Whst musty problem 
is so abstruse as the problem of love ? and yet the heart—the 
great mathematician of Nature—works out its beautiful results 
without a guide, without an effort, without an error! The 
intellect, like the heart, has its excitement, its enthusiasm. 
and being a part of the Invisible spirit of the perfect which 


pervades the universe, it is alwsys pure, always just—unless 
when wsrped or perverted by the grosser sense. But it is not 
yet time, by many years, to talk in this wild fashion. The 
mind of man has many changes to undergo before it is fit to 
mingle with the Eternal Perfect without losing its own identity. 
Passion, and artificial good and evil, still usurp too large a 
space upon the throne of Intellect, and Thought is still the 
slave of Expedience ; and so—the bell tolls midnight, and our 
dream is past. 

Alison's History or Europe. —The last number of this 
invalusble work has been issued by the Harpers, within the 
last month, and the work is now ready for delivery to those 
who have preferred to wait for it entire. The work of Mr. 
Alison is undoubtedly one of the most important acquisitions 
to our history and language since the history of England, by 
Mr. Hume, and is fairly deserving of being placed beside that 
great standard authority. In the chapters treating of Ameri¬ 
can affairs, and the incidents of the Revolution, Mr. Alison has 
committed some errors which have been deemed of sufficient 
importance to bo commented upon by one of our most distin¬ 
guished jurists and writers, Chaucellor Kent. These com¬ 
ments are reprinted, together with Mr. Alison's corrections, in 
accordance with their suggestions, in the edition before us. 
With these sdditious, the work is probably as near perfection 
as any book of history extant. 

We should not be doing our duty to the public did we not 
here warn them of the existence of a spurious and mutilated 
edition of Alison's History, published at a price rather less 
insignificant than the disjointed skeleton it buys, and which 
was evidently issued with the view of supplanting the genu¬ 
ine work. The cheap copy is too imperfect to be of the 
slightest use to any body, and would only serve to mislead and 
embarrass the reader. It is, in short, one of those patch-work, 
catch-penny affairs, which are becoming quite too plentiful of 
Into, and should be passed by as utterly unworthy of public 
patronage. 


1UIOILRID9 UF rAKIS 


H. Town : Harper if Brother »; 2 cota.—It is a little strange 
that the most thrilling novel of low life overwritten, should be 
the production of a Parisian exquisite—a fop and dandy of the 
first water—a man of ton— an epicure—a perfect Pelham iu 
France. But so it is. We freely avow, that iu the whole range 
of fictional writing, we have never met with any thing so 
thrilling and powerful as the Mysteries of Paris. The works 
of Mr. Dickens, while they do not surpass the “Mysteries" in 
bold and effective delineation of character and freedom and 
truthfulness of dialogue, fall far below them in interest of plot 
and general scope and purpose. There is something of that 
indefinite vastness about the design aud execution of the “ Mys¬ 
teries—that shifting and far-stretching horizon which seems as 
if just subsiding from the infinity of chaos-that speaks of sub¬ 
limity, and startles the soul with a class of sensations seldom 
aroused by literary stimulants. 

To enter into any thing like an analysis of the plot of this 
wonderful book would be totally impossible-as nothing short 
of copying the whole book would give the reader an efficient 
idea of the power, pathos and poetry here strewn over the 
lowest and most disgusting details of low life as well as the 
hypocritical and seductive vices of the nobility and the court. 

Some of our readers may perhaps have met with random 
assertions in the daily papers, (whose editors, wonderful men' 
criticise by instinct, and laud or condemn, as if by clarivoyl 
ance, and without reading a syllabic,) that the “Mysteries" 
contain much that is improper and impure, in thought and ex¬ 
pression. This is not so. We profess to despise and loathe 
the licentiousness of the press as heartily and wholly as any 
individual that walks the earth ; nor could any consideration 
tempt us to gloss over a work which we considered to be of an 
improper tendency. Such, however, is not the “ Mysteries of 
Paris.” True, much that is evil, gross, disgusting, horrible, i. 
there described, and with such vivid power and effect, that it is 
as if a broad glare of lightning bad suddenly illuminated the 
dens of a vast metropolis and laid bare the dreadful secrets of 
their most hidden recesses. There is no maudlin attempts as 


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104 


editors’ table. 


in Paul Clifford, to sufar over crime, and ekow only its fairer 
aide. Tbe picture is truth ; and all truth is wholesome. 

The translator, Mr. Town, has performed his difficult and 
thankless duties with a neatness, a delicacy of fiuish, a clear¬ 
ness of perception, and an acuteness of comprehension, that will 
do him as much honor as they do the author justice. French 
sentiment done into English is so generally diluted into insi¬ 
pidity or inflated to rhodomontade, that we bad little hope of 
ever seeing an English version of M. Sue’s inimitable work 
that could afford us pleasure in the perusal. We confess our 
agreeable disappointment. The work of Mr. Town has beeu 
performed in a manner every way satisfactory. There are, to 
be sure, a few trifling inaccuracies—mere slips of the pen— 
which are readily corrected ; aud the only wonder is that in a 
work so abounding in difficulties, the errors should be so few. 

We ought perhaps to mention that this splendid work is 
published in two volumes octavo, at twenty-five cents each— I 
making the price of the whole work half a dollar. Another 
edition is also announced, aud has begun slowly crawling 
through Ihe press, at the rate of thirty or forty pages a week 
—which will complete tbe work, with ordinary luck, some¬ 
where about New-Year. This is issued in numbers, at one 
shilling each, and to he completed in ten parts—making the 
price of the book ten shillings, while the Harpers’ is but four. 
Of this translation we shall not speak—it is truly beneath criti¬ 
cism. Bombast, rigmarole and turgidity are its chief charac¬ 
teristics; and so plentifully are they bestowed, that the work 
of M. 8ue is completely distorted and disguised. We hove 
labored through enough of it to perfectly establish tbe justice 
of this opinion; and were right glad to lay it down, and to 
escape from any further perusal of it. 

The Banker’s Wipe ; or, Court and City. A Novel ; fry 
Mrs. Gore: Harper if Brothers. —Mrs. Gore has an excellent 
reputation, and this very interesting story has added new leaves 
to her laurels. It is a very graphic delineation of scenes and 
characters which, from the events of the last few years in this 
country, havo become most interesting to the American reader; 
and so faithfully has Mrs. Gore performed her part, that one 
can almost imagine that she must have drawn a portion of her 
materials from American experience. Truly, human nature is 
every where the same,—'tis the wand of genius that conjures 
up from its mysterious depths so many various and conflicting > 
phantasms. j 

Harpers’ Family Library: Not. 158, 159, 160. Russell's 
History of Polynesia ; Perilous Adventures , fry Davenport; 
Constitutional Jurisprudence of the United Stales.—' "The 
Family Library ” forms the most perfect and valuable cyclo¬ 
pedia of interesting knowledge extant. It is edited with con¬ 
summate ability, and the nicest discrimination. Every succes¬ 
sive number, as it appears, seems necessary to tbe completion 
of a series that might well have been considered complete 
without it; and there are few •' family libraries,” of thrice 
tbe number of volumes, containing so great an amount of every 
kind of knowledge as this. 

The three last numbers of this invaluable series we have 
read with great pleasure and profit. The volume upon the 
*• Constitutional Jurisprudence of the United 8tates,” is espe¬ 
cially timeAil ond appropriate, and supplies a want in our 
household literature which we long have felt. It comprises 
the celebrated course of lectures delivered in Columbia Col¬ 
lege, by William Alexander Duer, L. L. D., late President of 
that institution. 

The American Poultry-Book. Harper if Brothers.— This 
is a very valuable little treatise on the management of do¬ 
mestic poultry, by Micajah R. Cock—himself considerable of 
a chicken. The author entrenches himself in bis work behind 
tbe aphorism, “ a very considerable part of all the property of 
every nation consists of its domestic animals.” The title-page 
is emhellished with a full length portrait of the author—spurs j 
and all. 

Songs ok Beranger, in English ,—with a Sketch of His 
Life. Carey if Hart.— If we had some one to do for Beranger 
what Moore has done for Anacreon, oar English language 


t would possea three of tbe rarest feme of inspiration that ever 
glittered in tbe light of poesy. Anacreon, Moore's Melodiee, 
and the Songs of B6raug*r, form a class by tbemselvea—with¬ 
out model and without successful imitators. Tbe first devoted 
himself, grey-beard as be was, exclusively to tbe delights of 
love and wine. In Ireland and France, it ie not only natural 
but indispensable, that “glory ” should form a tiers etai in the 
political economy of the muses; and therefore, while Moore 
and Bfrranger are quite as exquisite as Anacreon in all tbe 
softer touches of the wine-dropping, sigh-kindling lyre, they 
not seldom stir the soul with the loftiest and most thrilling 
strains, as if tbe claDgor of tbe trumpet were ringing in tbe 
listener’s ear. B6rauger is the pet of the critics, and tbe idol 
of his nation. The chivalric French, who alooe ef all the 
nations of Europe, know bow to honor and worship genius in 
all its various aspects, would aa enthusiastically sing with 
Beranger as die with Napoleon* The effervescence of the 
national soul runs over with gratitude to him who wtHgive it 
a single new emotion—and Bfrranger is tbe source of thou¬ 
sands. 

In tbe original, the poems of Bfrranger are marked by all 
that exquisite finish of construction and that delicacy of con¬ 
ceit in the tuns, which are so peculiarly the characteristics of 
Moore and Anacreon: but we are sorry to say that this ie, to 
a great degree, lost in the translations before ns. They are, 
with a few exception, (such as the ‘’Smugglers,” the “ Wander¬ 
ing Jew,” etc.,) awkward in phraseology, aad inaccurate in 
rytlim—so much so, in fact, as to nearly destroy the pleasure 
of perusal by a merely English reader. Sometimes tbe aensa 
of the Bard ia entirely {indistinguishable, and at others, abso¬ 
lutely perverted from its true meaning. 

When will oar translators learn that most important trtftb, 
that poetry cannot be translated but fry a poet J We have lying 
on our shelves untold and uncounted instalments of tbe intel¬ 
lectual debt that Europe owea the Anglo-Saxon tongue; and 
yet, much of it is in such uncouth and ragged shape, that it is 
useless and unsparkling. But aa translations are beginning to 
pay better than they have ever done before,—and, in truth, 
better than originals,—we may expect some choice efforts in 
this lino, from our ingenious countrymen, in the course of tbe 
next five years—after which time we shall have a most strin¬ 
gent international copy-right law established with all the na¬ 
tions of Europe. We ought, therefore, to “ make bay while the 
sun shines ”—let European authors rave and exclaim ” pirate 
as loudly—aud as justly —as they may. 

The Opal—W e are indebted to J. C. Riker, Fulton street, 
fora splendidly bound, brilliant-looking annual, under this title, 
the announcement of which created considerable sensation in 
the “ patent leather ” and arabesque circles of literary front too. 
The reading matter and binding—tbe letter-press and hot- 
press—of this bijou, are all that could be expected or desired ; 
but the engravings are stiff and cold as frozen carrots. We 
” dislike to dislike ” any thing that is meant to be pretty, 
(even if it be a ineant-to-be-pretty woman ;) but ” fax ia fax,” 
as Mr. Chawls Yellowplush says; and we are bound to say 
that the embellishments of the ” Opal ” do not gnawer our 
expectations. Tbe work is published under the auspices of 
Mr. Willis, as editor; but we learn that be did not assume the 
duties until it was nearly ready for the press. 

The Handbooks or Needlework— We have from Mr. Red- 
field a complete little minature library—elegantly printed 
and bound, with pretty and innocent devices, (though of gilt,) 
and the contents as neatly stitched—wc beg pardon, written— 
as tbe hem of a lover’s handkerchief, (these lovers are great at 
free*/-ming,) wrought by the dainty fingers of his ‘‘Ladye 
fayre.” These little volumes contain full and complete eluci¬ 
dation of all the mysteries of tbe art of needlework,—myste¬ 
ries, we venture to say, of far greater importance to our aex, 
and to the well-being of society, than tbe “ Mysteries of 
Paris,” now engrossing every brain—although that thrilling 
work itself is but another illustration of bow much we ought 
to sue. —(Owe to Sue!) 


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THE LADIES’ COMPANION. 

. 

NEW-YOBK, JANUARY, 1844. 


RUTH AND BOAZ. 

In the whole broad range of Bible poetry— 
and the romance of the affections is shed upon 
the heart from that holy book like incensed light 
from a golden urn—there is no one bright pas¬ 
sage over which we have more fondly lingered 
than the delicate, sweet and sacred story of 
Ruth, the daughter-in-law of Naomi. The pri¬ 
mitive and hearty customs and habits of thought 
amongst the chosen people of God, abounded 
daily in those inexpressible yet thrilling manifes¬ 
tations of the strength of the domestic affections, 
which our involved, polished, triturated and arti¬ 
ficial institutions seem to have entirely rooted 
from the heart of the people. The great and 
divine law of faith in each other begot 
amongst men the fruits it needed ; while m 
modern times, the hypocrisy, distrust and jeal¬ 
ousy which we are taught each to entertain for 
the other, engender the very evils we think we 
would avoid, and people the tenderest and most 
loving hearts with foul and loathsome thoughts, 
which too often lead to actions that “ make the 
angels weep!” 

After all the elaborate sermonizing upon the 
reforming of society’s fearful abuses, with which 
the press, the bench and the sacred desk are 
daily teeming, could one lesson of the simplicity 
and purity of the olden time—such as the touch¬ 
ing picture of Ruth and her humble faithfulness 
—be presented to each heart, how far would the 
effect surpass all the wonders hoped to be accom¬ 
plished by the eloquence of lip or pen, or the 
denunciations and inflictions of the violated laws! 
How truly hath the Bard, (he who is next on 
earth to that inspiration which came direct from 
Heaven,) said, “ one touch of nature makes the 
whole world kin !” The simple, truthful, touch¬ 
ing pictures of love and faith—of man’s lofty 
honor, and woman’s pure, self-sacrificing devo¬ 
tion—so profusely scattered over the sacred page, 
are* as it were, the precious relics, which, like a 
talisman, to guard from temptation and from evil, 
our young men and women should wear close to 
their hearts, both when they lie down to sleep 
and when they rise up to pray. Listen to the 
delicious harmony distilled by the quaint old 
tale: 

“ 3. And Elimelech, Naomi’s husband, died; and she 
was left, and her two sons. j 

“ 4. And they took them wives of the women of Moab; 

13 


the name of the one was Orpah, and the name of the 
other Ruth! and they dwelled there about ten years. 

44 5. And Mahlon and Chilion died also, both of them ; 
and the woman was left of her two sons and her husband. 
******** 

“ 7. Wherefore, she went forth out of the place where 
she was, and the two daughters-in-law with her: and 
they went on the way to return unto the land of Judah. 

44 8. And Naomi said unto her daughters-in-law, Go, 
return each to her mother’s house: the Lord deal kindly 
with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.’ 

The good, but worldly-minded and simple 
Orpah saw the propriety of this advice. 

44 14. And Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth 
clave unto her. * * * * * 

44 16. And Ruth said, Entreat mo not to leave thee, or 
to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, 
I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy 
people shall be my people, and thv God my God. 

44 17. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be 
buried: the Lord do 90 to me, and more also, if ought 
but death part thee and me. 

44 18. When she saw that she was steadfastly minded 
to go with her, then she left speaking unto her ” 

Where is the heart that is not melted into ex¬ 
quisite tenderness almost too great to be borne, 
by the couduct of this simple, noble and glorious 
woman ! Before such heroism as this, all other 
sinks into contempt and insignificance. 

But we show our weakness, in thus lingering 
over a theme so familiar to the hearts and memo¬ 
ries of our readers. The time of the story of 
Ruth chosen by our engraver, is that in which 
she first appears in the field of Boaz, in the hum¬ 
ble character of a gleaner. “ And she said, I 
pray you let me glean aud gather after the rea¬ 
pers among the sheaves.” 

44 Then said Boaz unto Ruth, Hearest thou not, my 
daughter ? Go not to glean in another field, neither go 
from hence, but abide here fast by my maidens.” 

The artist has admirably caught and transfixed 
the very spirit of the hour and place. The rich 
and golden light of the harvest sun lies heavily 
upon the branches of the distant trees, and rests 
upon the waves of the ripe corn, bending down to 
the earth, beneath the bnrden of their own ripened 
fulness. The stillness of summer noon-tide 
seems fallen upon all around, and one almost is 
ready to pant beneath the sultry exhaustion of 
the hour; while amid all, that pure, cool, refresh¬ 
ing face—that graceful attitude—that full, round¬ 
ed arm and shoulder—that exquisitely moulded 
throat and upturned head—that ancle stealing 
out from beneath the modest robe—give such an 
air of classic repose to the aspect of the scene, that 
you drink in the beauty of the artist’s dream, and 
feel that it is good to be there. 


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THB BROKEN ARROW. 


O riff in a 1. 

THE BROKEN ARROW. 

AW AUTHENTIC PASSAGE FROM UNWRITTEN j 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 

___ ■ I 

WT THE AUTHOR OF “ THE YEMAS8EE,” 44 THE KIWSMEW,” ETC. 

[“Thlecathcha,” or the “Broken Arrow,” 
is, or was, the very romantic name of a portion 
of country, lying in the Muscoghee territory, I 
within the limits of Georgia. In this narrative,!! 
however, we have thought it not unseemly to || 
apply this epithet to a chief, who, for a long 
period of time, was the master-spirit among his 
people, and whose erring aims, and melancholy 
fate, fairly deserve the appellation. The writer j 
of this narrative, then a mere youth, happening, ’ 
a few weeks after the assassination of General ! 
William Mackintosh, to pass through the nation 
in the immediate vicinity of the scene of execu- ; 
tion, had his attention necessarily drawn to a 
subject which was then in the mouths of all 
around him, and upon which the general opin¬ 
ions were equally numerous and conflicting. In 
this manner he picked up, as well from Indian 
as from white authorities, sundry small particu- 


signed to go, and before he well knew what ha 
had done, had written out the whole known 
History of the Muscoghee Nation—gathered 
from its traditions and our chronicles, from the 
very moment, when, “ covered with red hair, 
their gigantic ancestor, with thunder on his 
tongue, and a sheaf of lightning in his hand, 
sprang out of the chambers of the sun, in the 
west, and set forth on those conquests, turned 
eastward, which left his descendants in posses¬ 
sion of their Apalachian hunting-grounds.” But 
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. At 
present, we afflict the reader with a more brief, 
certain aud matter-of-fact narrative.] 

The war of 1812 with Great Britain brought, 
as is well known, the Creek nation of Indians into 
the field against us. Stimulated by the emissa¬ 
ries of the British, and bribed with their treasure, 
the bloody atrocities which they committed will 
long be remembered along the frontiers of the 
South and West. Scourged and humbled by 
the conduct and valor of that great man, Andrew 
Jackson,—the Indians sued for peace and ob¬ 
tained it; but only, among other conditions, by 
a large cession of their lands, the possession of 
which, by the whites along the borders, was 


lars relating to the event. These were treasured justly esteemed necessary to their security and 
in his memory, without effort; and,subsequently, | peace. This cession was followed, in 1818, by 
the possession of certain documents—public, but j another, in which two other large tracts of tern- 
little read or known—which furnished him with j tory were surrendered; and, by a treaty in 1821, 
additional material—induced and enabled him to i a third cession made the Flint and ChatahoochA 


throw together the details which follow. These, j! rivers the Eastern boundary of the 44 nation.” 
in his opinion, form an exceedingly interesting jj These subsequent cessions, it must be under¬ 
passage in our unwritten domestic history, and |j stood, were not granted by way of immunities, 
may assist some more comprehensive chronicler, jj The lands were contracted and paid for, even 
hereafter, in elaborating the train of events which j 1 liberally, in money and goods, at rates which 
are coupled with this, in the fortunes of the |! would be considered monstrous by all European 
decaying people whom it mostly concerns. The j people, and infinitely beyond any measure of 
reader will please to understand, however, that j| compensation, ever adopted by the early colonists 
strict accuracy is not pretended to in regard to jj in their transactions with the Indians, 
the minor details of this narrative. In the case I But these cessions did not meet the emergen- 
of oral relations, depending, as they must, upon I cies of the whites. The great increase of our 
the uncertain memories of men—uncertain in the ! population, the certain result of institutions, 
most tenacious instances—error becomes una- which, like ours, enable man to assert his man- 
voidable, even where the spirit of the narrator is j hood, in the only Christian and intellectual way, 
most conscientious. But the substantial truth j —carried the banner of civilization, day by day, 


of the leading events in this sketch,—the vital still deeper into the forests. The red man, sta- 
facts—may all be religiously relied on; and will tionary but unperforming, impeded the progress 
be found freer from mistake of detail, and mis- 1 which he refused to facilitate; and the urgent 
construction of intention, than is commonly the demands of the people of Georgia rendered it 
case with what is usually called history. He 
may add, by way of further warning to the 
reader, of evil yet to come, that, by dipping thus 
deeply into the Indian chronicle, the author was 


I necessary that Government should make corres- 
I ponding efforts to comply with their necessities. 
Accordingly, in the year 1822, Congress appro- 
! priated the sum of $30,000, for the purpose of 


insensibly beguiled farther than he originally de- 


defraying the expenses of such further confe- 

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THE BROKEN ARROW. 


Ill 


recces with the Indians as might accrue from 
bringing them together. It *vas desirable to ex¬ 
tinguish utterly, their title,—desirable for many 
reasons—particularly to the people of Georgia, 
who felt all the inconvenience, annoyance and 
insecurity, which ensued from the proximity of a 
people so capricious and treacherous;—and, 
indeed, had the Government of the United 
States been true to itself, the close of the war of 
1812, would have been signalized by the forcible 
transfer of the whole nation to the more con¬ 
genial regions beyond the Mississippi. It was 
with some considerable reluctance, however, that 
Congress took the necessary steps to effect the 
same object, by treaty, in 1822. The immediate 
pressure of danger withdrawn, governments of 
the people are usually slow to provide against 
such evils as only threaten, or do not threaten 
—in the distance. The duty, solemnly assumed 
by the United States in 1802, by which it gua¬ 
rantied the early extinction of the Indian titles, 
was onq, irksome on several accounts, to various 
portions and parties in the country—particularly 
in those portions where the measures resorted to, 
at an earlier period, were much more summary, j 
and less equitable, for the attainment of a kindred 
object. The desire of Georgia was assumed to j 
be one growing rather out of her cupidity, than ! 
because of any real annoyance or danger from 
the Indians. At all events, it is certain that the 
public mind in many parts of the Union was pre¬ 
pared to regard the proceeding with unfriendly 
eyes, and to address itself against it, with the 
most earnest opposition. False ideas of philan¬ 
thropy prevailed, to bring about this feeling of 
hostility, with many, who failed to perceive that, 
though not actually engaged in war,—with arms 
in their hands, and fury in their hearts,—there 
was yet, and must be always, a tacit social war¬ 
fare going on continually, between any two races, 
actually in contact, and differing so very mate¬ 
rially in all moral and physical respects, as the 
red men and the white. These very differences 
produce dislikes, and the war of arms must ulti¬ 
mately ensue. The white man, conscious of 
intellectual and numerical superiority, will neces¬ 
sarily assert it; and the rugged and savage sense 
of independence, to which the Indian is accus¬ 
tomed,—not to speak of his anti-social modes of 
thinking and feeling on almost all subjects con¬ 
nected with morals and property,—would render 
him at all limes a jealous, resentful and unsafe 
neighbor. The consequences of the propinquity 
of the two races would, to every thoughtful and 
inquiring mind, seem inevitable, and were so. 
But philanthropy does not often behold its object 


with the eyes of philosophy; and the fanciful and 
lofty notions which prevailed among an educated 
and highly refined people, were made to apply, 
as governing moral standards, to the condition of 
a very barbarous one. The feelings which in¬ 
spire our poetry, were assumed to fill the breasts 
of a people utterly insensible to all the consti¬ 
tuents of poetry, such portions alone excepted as 
possibly enter into the orgies and faith of the 
Scandinavian savage, or the Corinthian boor. It 
was assumed by Fancy—who sometimes puts on 
the habit, and looks grave, like Philosophy,—as 
a monstrous evil, that a people should be ex¬ 
pelled from homes in which they had made no 
permanent habitation—which they had neither 
enriched by culture, nor made attractive by art 
or ingenuity. The changes were rung upon the 
deplorable cruelly which would drive them away 
from the contemplation of the graves of their 
fathers; and, from the expression of complaints 
like these, the wandering savage was, for the first 
time, instructed m the language of a suffering 
which he himself had never felt. The sympathy 
of the philanthropic among the whites, thus 
injudicously and unreasonably expressed, ren¬ 
dered the Indians stubborn—nay, furnished them 
with the arguments, by which they met the wise 
provision which alone could protract the day of 
their ulter extermination. TJieir writings were 
prepared by white men, squatters in the nation, 
who found their profit in baffling the designs of 
Government, and keeping the Indians in a state 
of partial dependence upon themselves. Their 
very chiefs and head men were either whites or 
descended from white men ; and these, generally 
the most abandoned of their sort, were just as 
regardless of the sympathies with their own 
color, as they were indifferent to the interests of 
the poor savage. From their knowledge of the 
people whom they had abandoned, they infused 
arguments and opinions into the minds of those 
whom they served—such arguments as were 
gathered from the wild declamation of news¬ 
papers, or the yet more wild declamation of the 
uneducated Western preacher. These, too, 
sometimes took wives among them, acquired 
property in consequence, and, becoming thus 
stationary, were loth to abandon their comforta¬ 
ble quarters, to share the fortunes of the people 
with whom they had allied themselves. Such a 
feeling of reluctance, though natural enough to 
the individual white, was yet of small importance 
to the Indians, uutil he furnished the arguments 
which made it equally imposing to them. That 
the savages should choose white men to be their 
chiefs and counsellors, excludes obviously the 


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THE BROKEN ARROW. 




recognition of any independent notions of their 
own on the subject of their policy as a 
community. Thoughtless and improvident, as 
are all people who have never been practised in 
the holy and blessing tasks of labor, they were 
incapable of discussing their own interests with 
any likelihood of just and beneficial results. 
Their nomadic life made them really indifferent 
to place, unless as readily affording them the 
game upon which they subsisted; and thus, 
feebler than children, the policy which rendered 
them a stationary people, in a region which had 
been almost denuded of ail resources of this 
description,—unless coupled with the stern guar¬ 
dianship which would have subjected them to the 
methodical employments of industry—would have 
been one as destructive in the end to themselves, 
as it would have been adverse to every hope of 
keeping them pacific. The whole argument, on 
this subject, equally comprehensive and simple, 
is comprised in a nutshell, which any ordinary 
mind may crack at any moment. We will not 
pursue it here. 

The effects of this meddlesome philanthropy 
soon made itself apparent, and. has made itself 
felt in repeated and painful occurrences ever 
since. Under the appropriation of 1822, made 
by Congress for holding conferences with the 
Georgia Indians,Abe Commissioners of Govern¬ 
ment appointed to carry this object into effect, 
repaired first to the Cherokee Nation, sometime 
in the autumn of 1823; and submitted to the 
Chiefs of that nation certain proposals for the 
cession of their territory. But a more potential 
voice had anticipated them in their designs, and 
prepared the Indians against their application. 
Certain of the Cherokee Chiefs were of white 
blood, had travelled among the whites, and 
gathered money and arguments, in liberal 
quantity, from the philanthropists in various 
parts of the Union. To the proposals of the 
Commissioners they returned a flat denial. The 
Cherokees, it may be well to state, had, by this 
time, made considerable advances, speaking with 
certain qualifications, in the arts of civilization— 
some few of them at least. Always a less wan¬ 
dering and less courageous people than the con¬ 
temporaneous nations—regarded, with some con¬ 
tempt, as unmanly, by the Muscoghees, Chicka- 
saws, Choctaws and Catabaws,—it was with 
them, a less difficult process, and a less degrading 
transition, to pass from the hunter to the pastoral 
and agricultural life. Long before the American 
Revolution, they had achieved certain advances 
in these labors which had placed them in an atti¬ 
tude of superior civilization to their neighbor; 


and the severe punishments which they received 
from the Carolinians in 1761, by more effectually 
subduing whatever martial spirit they ntfay have 
had, rendered the adoption among them of the 
preliminary arts of civilization, more desirable 
and more easy. Until late years, however, their 
progress had not gone much beyond the cultiva¬ 
tion of adequate supplies of lodiaa Corn, and 
the most ordinary provisions. They had small 
herds of cattle, which relied entirely on the forest 
ranges for their pasturage. No portion of their 
provision was raised in reference to their Cattle; 
even their favorite beast of burden,—the Chero¬ 
kee pony—which lias a reputation of its own for 
hardihood and activity, derived its food from the 
cane-top, from chance depredations upon the 
meanly enclosed fields,---from the woods at large, 
—or from any source but their masters. But 
the grand step which the Cherokees had made, 
or were about to make, towards civilization, con¬ 
sisted in their having become stationary— In 
contracting their limits, the individual as the 
nation,—and this step was most probably forced 
upon them, by the pressure, on all sides, of the 
accumulating whites. Something, also, do doubt 
was due to the mixed blood of their chiefs and 
leading men, many of whom had received the 
benefits—important in the highest degree as well 
to them as to us,—of a grammar school education, 
and all of whom were in the habit of mingling, 
more or less, with the white population of the 
neighborhood. The women wove and spun a 
little. There was probably a blacksmith—a half- 
breed—among them; and, perhaps, they had a 
native carpeuter, and others who professed a 
slight knowledge of other necessary mechanic 
arts. The nation possessed a newspaper, which, 
like many of our own, did an infinite deal of 
mischief in the hands of small politicians. A 
man of mixed blood, named Guess, the son of a 
white father and Indian mother—one of that 
class, which, for good or evil, will always have 
most influence among the Indian tribes of our 
country—had derived enough from his Anglo- 
American origin, to effect an achievement upon 
which the philanthropists every where could 
declaim, ad libitum , as a proof of the national 
genius and its paramount resources. Like 
another Cadmus,—such was the bruit—he had 
evolved the characters which embodied to the 
eye the sounds known to the language of his 
people; and this invention was the great and 
conclusive argument, which, with the enthusi¬ 
astic and visionary, proved every thing. The 
beuefits of this discovery, whatever they might 
have been, ensued rather to the advaalage 


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THE BROKEN ARROW. 


113 


the whites and half-breeds, within the nation, 
than to the still miserable people whose concerns 
they mismanaged. At »H events, vnder the cir¬ 
cumstances in which the nation stood, swayed by 
whatever motives or opinions, the Cherokee 
Chiefs positively refused, on any terms, to 
accede to the wishes of the Government. It 
ahould not be forgotten, also, that these persons, 
by this time, had been taught by the cupidity of 
the white squatter, that 44 there was gold in the 
fond, and Uurt the gold of the land was good.” 
Cupidity and treachery are probably the two 
most prominent characteristics of Indian educa¬ 
tion, or, in Western dialect, of * Indian naturi.” 
Besides, they had heard exaggerated accounts of 
the hardships endured by that portion of their 
countrymen, who had already, years before, emi¬ 
grated beyond the Mississippi—the poverty of 
the soil, the want of 44 lightwood,” and the 
proximity of dangerous neighbors;—and they 
cither really felt these as objections, or they 
made them appear so in their declamations. 

It was on occasion of this projected treaty, 
that the services of the somewhat celebrated 
Muscoghee Chief; William Mackintosh,—other¬ 
wise 44 The Broken Arrow,” were put in requisi¬ 
tion by the whites; and he was persuaded by the 
Commissioners to visit the Cherokee nation with 
the view to the promotion, by his eloquence,— 
which was plausible and ingenious,—of the object 
which they had in contemplation. Mackintosh 
had acquired the confidence of the whites in the 
last war between them and his own people. He 
was of the minority who took sides against the 
44 red sticks,” and joined the army of Jackson in 
their extirpation. He did admirable service 
against them, and against the Seminoles, when 
Jackson pursued the fugitive Creeks, down into 
the very heart of that outlawed nation. He had 
risen into power among his own people after the 
peace; and, strengthened by the whites, to whom 
his attachments were almost wholly given—for 
he too, was in part descended from white parent¬ 
age,—he, perhaps, wielded the nation almost 
entirely at his will. This amazing influence, it 
may be well, passingly, to intimate, was the true 
cause of that jealousy among his associate 
Ohiefs, which contributed, in a great degree, to 
overthrow and destroy him. But we will not 
anticipate. 

As an artful politician, an able orator, a well 
known leader of the Creeks, and highly esteemed 
among the Cberokees, from which nation he had 
-chosen his wife, Mackintosh visited the latter 
-people in order to urge upon them the sale of 
•their territory. He appealed in their Councils, 


and, publicly, to their assemblies, and privately 
to individuals, boldly urged the various argu¬ 
ments which he thought would avail to effect his 
mission. It is a well known custom among the 
Chiefs of the Indian tribes, when at peace, to 
visit one another, and, as warriors and sages, to 
take part in the national deliberations, precisely 
as if the visitor were a citizen, amd had equal 
interests with those among whom he came. This 
courtesy has been frequently extended by them 
to their white guests, to whose counsels they 
listen with becoming gravity, though, perhaps, 
always with that suspicious judgment, which 
never sleeps when in contact with a superior 
person or intellect. Confiding in the honor of 
their guest, however, they are not unwilling to 
avail themselves of his wisdom ; and in times of 
doubt or danger, the Muscoghee Council 
listened gladly to the advice of the Sachem of 
Cherokee, and, in turn, the latter yielded a 
respectful ear to the instructive comment or 
sagacious judgment of the orator from Tookan- 
batchie. The appearance of William Mackin¬ 
tosh, therefore, before the Grand Council of 
the Cherokees, was neither a suspicious nor an 
unusual circumstance ; but it is not improbable 
that, long before this period, Mackintosh him¬ 
self had begun to lose the confidence and the 
affections of this people. Thdir leaders were in 
fact so many rivals; and the very intimacy which 
the Creek Chief possessed among the whites, 
was necessarily unfavorable to his influence over 
those of his own complexion. Their deference 
in hearing his arguments, was accorded to their 
custom rather than to the particular speaker. 
They listened with patience, but their fears were 
aroused, and their indignation excited. There 
was yet another circumstance that tended to 
lessen the influence of the warrior. He had 
become a tradesman. He had thrown aside the 
tomahawk and taken up the day-book—he'had 
left the forum for the counter;—and this change, 
acting upon a disposition which is represented to 
have been naturally mercenary—as probably is 
the case with all savages—contributed to debase 
his virtues in the vulgar mind, which, least of all, 
is apt to forgive the auri sacra fames , in the 
heart of him that aspires to its rule and mange- 
ment. We state the opinions entertained by his 
opponents, without meaning to vouch for their 
authenticity. It is not improbable that, educated 
among the whites,—partially a white himself,—a 
man of great sagacity and forethought,—he had 
received the conviction, which would infallibly 
occur to any mind familiar with the true charac¬ 
ter of his people, that their only hope of safety, 

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THE BROKEN ARROW 


as well as independence, lay in their absolute 
removal from all connection with the superior 
people. The true purposes of Mackintosh may 
not have been the less patriotic, because they 
were so little popular. My own opinion is that no 
rulero have ever been more selfish in their aims 
and performances, than the Indian chiefs of our 
country in modern periods. Certainly, no people 
has ever been kept in a more squalid state of 
destitution than those over whom they hold the 
rule. 

However equivocal may have been the motives 
of Mackintosh, he urged his arguments with the 
tame zeal which he had ever shown as an ally of 
the American people. When his arguments 
failed, however, he committed himself and cause, 
by imprudently attempting to bribe certain of the 
most influential chiefs whom he had failed to 
convince. If they were dissatisfied by his pre¬ 
vious efforts, they were now displeased. Besides, 
they were now able to crush him. He had fur¬ 
nished them the means to do so. They, accord¬ 
ingly, rejected his overtures with disdain, and 
denounced them. John Ross, the then Presi¬ 
dent of the National Council, to whom he had 
submitted his proposals in writing, confronted 
him with them in open assembly of the chiefs, 
and denounced him as a traitor to his nation. 
The letter, written by the Cherokee chiefs, 
which discloses the perfidy of Mackintosh, to 
his own people, is worthy of perusal. It dates 
from “ New Town,” in the Cherokee nation, 
“October 24th, 1823.” It is addressed to Big! 
Warrior and Little Prince, the Head Chiefs of; 
the Muscoghees, and runs thus :— I 


This letter was signed by Pathkiller, the prin* 
cipal, and twenty-eight other chiefs. 

The Muscoghees, thus forewarned of the pro¬ 
bable dishonesty of one of their chiefs, became 
doubly suspicious of him; and, following the 
advice of the Cherokees, now maintained a more 
strict watch upon his proceedings than ever. 
For a long time previously, his great intimacy 
with the people, and some of the authorities of 
Georgia,—a state which, it was well known to 
the Indians, was exceedingly desirous of obtain¬ 
ing possession of their lands,—had alarmed their 
jealousy, and the mercenary disposition which 
Mackintosh had evinced as a retail trader in the 
nation, had contributed greatly to lessen him in 
their esteem as an individual. These suspicions, 
and their occasion, at length aroused the appre¬ 
hensions of Mackintosh himself. He began to 
fear, not only the loss of his general influence, as 
a chief,—for he might be * broken ’ and deprived 
of his authority,—but he aUo saw that his per¬ 
sonal safety was endangered. He became, ac¬ 
cordingly, much more circumspect in his deal¬ 
ings with the white people, and more earnest in 
his assurances of fidelity to his own. But this 
was not enough for the jealous Muscoghees; and 
they proceeded to re-enact a law of their nation, 
made time out of mind “on the West Bank of 
the Ockmulge,” which decreed “rope and gun” 
—in other words, death by shot or halter,—to 
any of their people who should propose the sale 
of any more of their lands to the whites, or seek, 
by any means, to impair the integrity of their 
I existing title. In 1821, Mackintosh, with other 
! leading chiefs, infringed this law by a treaty,— 


“ Friends and Brothers: —We hnve this day pone through 
■ painful :md unpleasant ceremony. Your chief, William Mack¬ 
intosh, arrived beta soon after the commencement of the pre- 
*ent council, accompanied by seven others of his countrymen, 
including- his son and Interpreter. They were received In 
the General Council, as friends and brothers; an appropria¬ 
tion of money was ninde to procure forage for their hor.*o?. 
After hnviug showed them every friendship, we did not expect 
that William Mackintosh had any ungenerous di«po-ition 
towards the interest of tho nation; but we were mistaken. 
We find that Ins visit here must have been entirely through 
speculative designs. He has used intriguing lanvunge with 
Borne of our chiefs, to yield the laud to the United Staten Coiii- 
ttirninners, who are now here for that object; nnd has mad*- 
promises of ohtuiniug large sums of money for them, in which 
he proposed to share. Hia words, at first, were not taken 
notice of, but he still pursued the same course, nnd made a 
written communication to John Ross, the President of th*- 
national committee, on the subject; promising nineteen thou¬ 
sand dollars to be paid over to such individuals as he inny think 
proper, in case of accession. He further stated, verbally, t<< 
acme of our chiefs, that he had offered his whole country to 
the United States Commissioners, at two dollars per acre, ami 
ivirgrtled the. idea of the Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws and 
Ckickasatrs, all to surrender up their country, and emigrate 
west of the Mississippi River, and there to settle themselves 
under one government. The letter aforesaid, has been ex 
posed, and read in open council to-dav, by John Ross, in th*- 
presence of William Mackintosh ; and the General Council hav*- 
decreed that William Muckiutosh be. and he is hereby dis¬ 
charged from ever having a voice in our council*, hereafter, «- 
a chief connected with this nation. Brother*,” continues th • 


I (pronounced illegal, but afterwards consented to 
by the rest,)—with the United States: and nearly 
|! incurred this penalty ; 'till he showed them that 
the sale had become necessary, in order to meet 
! the claims existing against the nation. Though 
li this sale was concurred in, yet the penalty threa¬ 
tened against chiefs offending again in like raan- 
P ner, was solemnly re-enacted, oo the present 
! occasion ; Mackintosh, himself, appearing as one 
| of the advocates and signers of the law,—“ which 
'\ they then vowed to make permanent, as the only 
1 means of keeping their lands !” When the 
| message of the Cherokees, denouncing Mackin¬ 
tosh, was brought to them, such wa3 the excite¬ 
ment against him, that the law was again revived, or* 
i| re-delivered to the people, at a place called Pole 
| Cat Springs, and, as it is stated by hia brother, 

| ! and superior chiefs, revived by a proposition 
from himself. This movement was most proba- 


lcttcr of the Chcrokpp chief*, are astonished at ou> 

brother’s comiuct in this place. We hnvo lost all confidence 
ia his fidelity; and advise yon, as brothers, to keep a strict 
watch ovar bis conduct, or bo will ruin bis notion." 


bly designed to disarm their jealousy, and to dis¬ 
prove the presentations of these Cherokees. Ac- 


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THE BROKEN ARROW. 


115 


cording to their statement, he made an eloquent j! 
speech, while moving the re-enactment, the 
better to enforce its provisions upon the minds 
of all present. He told them, 41 that the law: 
was for the whole nation, without any exception; 
not for any person in particular, but for all— 
half breeds and all; and even for the 4 Little 
Prince* and ‘Big Warrior*—their two princi¬ 
pal chiefs.” This law was to be rigidly enforced, 
for it ordained, among other provisions, that, if 
it should so happen, that the people of one town ' 
refused to prosecute and punish the offender, | 
then ‘law menders,* (executioners,) from the J 
other towns were directed to do so;—and the 
property of him who violated the law was to be 
forfeited to those who enforced it by punishment. 
The re-enactment of this law, at the period re¬ 
ferred to, and the stern decision of all the chiefs 
upon it, contemplated, in particular, the case of 
Mackintosh, whose intrigues with the whites 
were now notorious,—whose mercenary charac¬ 
ter was odious,—and whose doubtful patriotism 
was more than suspected. 

But with all this prejudice against him, in 
spite of these suspicions, the superior cunning of 
Mackintosh enabled him to maintain his position 
as a chief, and to influence the feelings and 
opinions of a very strong party in the nation. 
These, it is true, were a minority, and were 
chiefly confined to the towns in his own neigh¬ 
borhood ; but their very compactness gave them 
an appearance of strength, which equally deceiv¬ 
ed the Indians and the Georgians,—leading the 
former to conduct their proceedings with a stu¬ 
dious caution, which, if it made their operations 
slow, rendered them more certainly effectual;— 
and prompting the Georgians to assume, as they 
did most probably on the representations of 
Mackintosh himself, that he was not only stron¬ 
ger than he really was, but that in fact he wielded 
the real vote, and prompted the true voice and 
feelings of the nation. It is barely possible that 
Mackintosh deceived himself in like manner. At 
all events, this prevailing error led to the catas¬ 
trophe which followed. It made his enemies 
circumspect, while it made him audacious; and 
it so far influenced the governor of Georgia, as 
to prompt his too active and open interference in 
the concerns of the nation,—a circumstance 
which, while it increased the apprehensions and 
indignation of the Indians, stimulated their hos¬ 
tility against the individual to whose false repre¬ 
sentations they ascribed the interference which 
they resented, as well as the mischiefs which 
they feared. 

The effect of the communication from the 


Cherokees was very soon and strikingly made 
manifest to the commissioners who came to treat 
on the part of the United States. The Creeks 
resolutely answered “ No !” to every application 
for the sale of their lands. Their councils were 
directed, and their reply signed by four chiefs. 
Mack intosh, (then also the speaker of the nation,) 
being one of them. In their reply they allege 
that they are convinced that “ their ruin must be 
the inevitable consequence of their removal be¬ 
yond the Mississippi.” The commissioners, not 
discouraged, renewed their efforts; and a long 
talk was addressed to the Indians, in council, the 
day following their refusal. This talk briefly 
sums up their history so far as it had connection 
with that of the whites,—insists upon the rights 
acquired by the latter from their conquest,— 
dwells upon the poverty of the Indians; their 
dependence and feebleness; and describes, truly, 
the destitution and the miserable state in which 
they lived, in consequence of their stubborn con¬ 
tinuance of the destructive life of the hunters, in 
a region already denuded of its primitive resour¬ 
ces. The reply of the Indians, signed by the 
same chiefs as before,—after giving their version 
of certain parts of their history, in which they 
differ from that given by the commissioners, 
ends by their returning the same repulsive 
answer; and, after several days of profitless 
negotiation,—profitless to both parties,—the 
proceedings were discontinued, and the Indians 
retired to their homes. 

The commissioners alledge, and with strong 
probability in behalf of their convictions, that 
there was a secret agency at work against them, 
apart from that of the Cherokees, which brought 
about this effect. The Indians were, in fact, 
under the government of white men,—persons 
who drove a good business in the nation; and of 
squatters, who, having married Indian women, 
found it their own most certain interest not 
only to keep where they were themselves, but 
to keep the Indians equally in the same moral 
and geographical position. The removal of the 
nation to the west, would suggest a necessity for 
their removal also; and the prospect of change 
alone, suggested the probability of such an 
abridgement of their power as they were unwil¬ 
ling to contemplate ; since it was very clear that 
their agency, in the affairs of the Indians, would 
be of far less importance to the latter when once 
they were withdrawn from all contact with the 
neighboring white settlements. The importance 
of the squatter to the Indian, was derived chiefly 
from the occasional intercourse of the savage 
with the settlers of the contiguous states. He 

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116 


TUB BROKKN ARROW. 


drew up the accounts of the savages;—urged his 
claims, by writing either to Justice, Charity, or 
Favor ;—sold and bought for him ;—inspected 
the money which he received; wrote his memo¬ 
rials to Government;—and prepared his argu¬ 
ments, and furnished his histories,—as in the 
present instance,—when be met in council for 
the purpose of treating with the whites. In this 
way, a few white men of half breeds, possessed 
the most unqualified sway over the Indians. 
Their words were so many laws; and they em¬ 
ployed their vast influence, most commonly, with 
a base and narrow reference to their own selfish 
interests and feelings, and not to the necessities 
or true policy of the ignorant barbarians who 
confided in them, and who knew not where else 
to turn for counsel. Even the messengers of 
the Gospel, the ministers of religion, were some¬ 
times to be found among these perverse advo¬ 
cates. They, too, received their bias, against 
the removal of the Indians to a remoter region, 
from the consciousness of those superior toils to 
themselves, which such a removal would draw 
after it. Reasoning for the Indians, from that 
policy which undoubtedly would have been their 
own, they may be assumed, as thfcy have been 
too frequently found, to be among the stumb¬ 
ling blocks in the way of Government, in all their 
efforts for the removal and consequent improve¬ 
ment of the tribes. 

An attempt was renewed a few months after, 
to make a treaty for the desired object, at a place 
called Indian Springs. On this occasion, a large 
number of chiefs and head men attended ;—and 
here again, as alleged, some secret management 
prevailed, if not entirely to baffle the execution 
of the.treaty, at least to render its validity doubt¬ 
ful, and make its performance dangerous. A 
man named Hanbly, acting as one of the United 
States interpreters, and probably largely inte¬ 
rested in keeping the Indians where they were, 
perceiving the progress of the commissioners 
towards the attainment of their object, alarmed 
the fears of certain of the chiefs, by assuring 
them that, if they did not fly, it was the intention 
of the whites to put them in prison. The sava¬ 
ges, at this suggestion, took to the woods at mid¬ 
night, and before the dawn of day, were distant 
twenty miles from the spot. It was conceived 
by those who were hostile to the treaty, that this 
would be a sufficient and sure mode for prevent¬ 
ing its completion. In this, however, their 
policy was at fault. The influence of Mackin¬ 
tosh prevailed over those who remained, and the 
propositions of the commissioners were finally 
acceded to by himself and fifty-two others, all of 


whom, with the exception of himself, are repre¬ 
sented as being inferior men among the nation ; 
not chiefs,—of no general influence, and without 
any power either to make laws or conclude trea¬ 
ties. They were persons representing eight 
towns of the nation only, when the number of 
these towns was no less than fifty-six. "When 
Mackintosh approached to sign the treaty, his 
hand was arrested by another chief, Opokbyo- 
bolo, who had stubbornly opposed it. This was 
now the speaker of the nation,—a man of com¬ 
prehensive understanding, and an eloquent ora¬ 
tor. 

“Brother,” he exclaimed, to Mackintosh, 
“ what would you do ? You are about to sell our 
country. You are in danger!” 

The remonstrance was unavailing. A fatality 
attended the movements of Mackintosh, and the 
orator, with a look of warning, retired from the 
assembly. He had not signed the paper, nor 
had any of the principal chiefs, with the single 
exception of Mackintosh, who ranked as first 
chief, as the lowest among them. The rest, 
with all the subordinate chiefs and law-makers 
of the nation, embodied their objections to the 
treaty in a protest, which was immediately sent 
after it to Washington. This letter alleges the 
treachery of Mackintosh, and prays that the rati¬ 
fication of the treaty may be temporarily defer¬ 
red, in order that time should be allowed to the 
Indians to deliberate, and to the Congress to 
inquire into the truth concerning the manner in 
which it was procured. 

The prayer of the petitioners was not granted 
them. The treaty was ratified by the Senate of 
the United States, with the protesting memorial 
before them. Doubtlessly, they weighed the 
force of its arguments with a proper consideration 
—it is not easy to say, at this time, what varie¬ 
ty of suggestions, of a political kind, had force in 
prompting them to set aside the protest of the 
dissenting chiefs; and, with the conviction which 
we feel, that the substantial good of the poor 
Indians was really best consulted by the measure 
of their removal, we are unwilling to assert that 
the ratification of the treaty, by the Senate, was 
precipitate, still less unwise. Considering the 
Indian tribes of our country, with a due reference 
to their savage and immature condition,—their 
ferocity and inferior civilization,—it was, per¬ 
haps, an error in the first instance, to have ever 
treated with them on terms of equality. A 
comprehensive view of the relations existing be¬ 
tween any two races in actual contact, suggests 
the religious duty of the superior to take the 
inferior under its guardianship,—to protect it 


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THE BROKEN ARROW. 


117 


from injustice, from cruelty and spoliation,—to 
1 teach, to guide and to restrain it;—but, at all 
events, to do for it that which seems best for the 
preservation of peace and good will between the 
parties, and for the promotion of the moral and 
intellectual, as well as social progress of the 
minor and inferior race. A people like the 
North American Indians, in relation to the Eu¬ 
ropean colonists, were so many children only,— 
to be treated as children, and gradually lifted 
to the social eminences of civilization, by a hand 
equally firm and considerate. Any other process 
—that, in particular, which recognizes an equali¬ 
ty of judgment and condition between them and 
the whites, which did not, and could not exist— 
was the very process most likely to result,—as it 
has resulted—in their overthrow and destruction. 
A like process of indulgence and deference, shown 
to our sons, would produce the same distressing 
consequences, even in the growing generations 
of the already superior race. 

But, disquisition aside,—the evil was consum¬ 
mated. The Government of the United States 
recognized and ratified the treaty, as if made in 
good faith; and the distress and anger of the 
Indians, when apprized of it, were heightened to 
ferocity. Mackintosh became alarmed, and, 
conscious of his treachery, or perhaps warned 
of his danger by some friendly Indian, he fled 
within the limits of Georgia for safety. He 
sought Governor Troup,, of that state, and de¬ 
clared his apprehensions. To calm his fears, 
and, possibly, at his own suggestion, the Gover¬ 
nor dispatched one of his aids, Colonel Lamar— 
(the gentleman, we believe, who was late the 
President of Texas)—with a “talk” to the 
Indians of the nation, which was intended to 
soothe their anger and disarm their hostility. 
We are not sure that this proceeding was a wise 
one,—at all events, we are persuaded that the 
talk itself was not a judicious one. Its language 
of expostulation and warning, was expressed in 
tones which too nearly resembled those of de¬ 
nunciation and threatening, to be very successful 
in soothing a highly exasperated people;—a 
people, too, who believed themselves to be sacri¬ 
ficed to the desires of the very party whose mes¬ 
senger had thus addressed them. But whatever 
might have been the real feelings of the Indian 
chiefs, they took care to express none other than 
that of peace. Being older politicians than 
Lamar, they found it easy to beguile his confi¬ 
dence ; and he left them in the full conviction 
that Mackintosh might return to the nation in 
perfect safety. It was unfortunate that Mackin¬ 
tosh shared in this conviction. He did return, 
14 


only to commit another indiscretion which re¬ 
vived and increased the ferocity of the Indians. 
He presumed upon the power,—assuming an 
authority to which he had no claim,—of grant¬ 
ing permission to Georgia, to make the survey 
of the ceded territory at an earlier period than 
had been specified in the treaty. It is probable 
that had he not taken this step, the Indians might 
have foreborne his punishment; and, taking coun¬ 
sel from their fears, and with some regard to 
their ancient veneration, have permitted him to 
go free, without attempting to enforce the ex¬ 
treme penalty which the violation of their laws 
had incurred. But this last proceeding, the 
precise tenor of which was not exactly under¬ 
stood among them, and the evils of which were 
represented by designing persons, as no less than 
their immediate dispossession of their lands, and 
| the forfeiture of their slaves, stock, cattle and 
improvements, rendered them desperate, and 
left them without any restraints either of good 
will or prudence. Their excitement, as repre¬ 
sented by the United States agent on the spot, 
was absolutely dreadful. The apprehensions of 
the whites, in and about the nation, were excited 
to such a degree, as to prompt their immediate 
flight; and every symptom was supposed to be 
shown, which would denote one of those bloody 
outbreaks of the savages, which could terminate 
only in the burning and massacre of the frontier. 
Meanwhile, lulled into a false security, Mackin¬ 
tosh remained in his fine dwelling on the Chata- 
hoochie, where, amidst abundauce of every kind 
—for he was wealthy—he either had no appre¬ 
hensions of danger, or with ordinary Indian 
inflexibility, he contrived to conceal them. 

The Chiefs, meanwhile, who were hostile to 
his course, were preparing themselves i». secret, 
for the purpose of redressing the violated laws of 
their country. Having quieted the fears of the 
criminal, and beguiled him back to the nation, 
they were content that their proceedings should 
be slow in order that they should be effectual. 
They gathered in consultation only such of their 
number as could be thoroughly relied on. Their 
meeting took place at midnight, on the banks of 
a gloomy river. Every precaution seems to have 
been taken that their place of consultation, and 
purpose, should not be borne abroad. Their 
conference was rather as to the mode of carrying 
the punishment into effect, than of simply 
passing sentence. That seems to have been 
already done. The voice of the nation had con¬ 
demned the offender. The judgment had been 
silently recorded in the bosoms of the great 
majority. The “ Law Menders” simply met to 

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118 


THE BROKEN ARROW. 


arrange the manner of proceeding. The decree 1 
of “rope and gun” against William Mackintosh, j 
was devolved for execution, upon certain chiefs I 
of the Oakfuskies, Talladegas and Emuckfaus— j 
tribes over which the influence of the criminal ! 
was too small to make it doubtful that they would : 
perform the duty without favor or flinching, en- j 
trusted to their hands. From these tribes, a , 
party of no less than four hundred warriors was 
made up, the direction of whose movements was | 
assigned to the two Chiefs, Mad Wolf and 
Meuawe, both of whom were supposed to regard !j 
Mackintosh with feelings of particular dislike and 
jealousy. 

The victim, little dreading the fate which was j 
at hand, remained with his family, and without a ■ 
guard, at his dwelling on the Chatahoochie. ! 
His confidence in the assurances of protection !■ 
from Georgia, and in the virtue of that 44 talk,” \ 
which Colonel Lamar had borne to the hostile 
Chiefs,—with, possibly, not an unreasonable 
reliance on the strength of his ancient popularity 
in the nation,—rendered him less circumspect 
and acute than was his wont. Besides, he was 
naturally a brave man,—had acquired this repu¬ 
tation under one of the bravest of his own or of 
auy time, (Jackson,)—and a sense of shame at 
the apprehension which he had recently shown, 
and which was no doubt only the natural result 
of a superior sense of guilt, emboldened him to 
stay, and stimulated him to the opposite extreme 
of an unwise confidence in his own fortunes. 
The Indian agent, (Col. Crowell,) ascribes this 
obtuseness entirely to the imprudent assurances 
of protection which he received from Georgia, 
lie asserts, that, if Mackintosh had been left to 
himself, he would have baffled his enemies by 
flight. Delay was all that was necessary for his 
safety, and could he have avoided the danger, for 
the time, until the first fury of the Indians had 
overblown, it is probable that the execution of 
their judgment would have beeu foreborne for 
ever. 

The 44 Law-Menders” for such, in the dialect 
of the nation, is the very appropriate title given 
to those who are appointed for the punishment 
of 44 Law-breakers "—proceeded to their tasks 
with a settled and sufficient deliberation. Their 
approach to the dwelling of Mackintosh was 
timed to take place at midnight, or just before 
the dawn of day. The house was surrounded in 
profound secrecy, without occasioning the least 
alarm. When this was done, and the leaguer 
was believed to be complete, they despatched 
oue Hutton, a white man, whom they had 
brought along with them for this purpose, with 


a message to the family of Mackintosh. Hutton 
was instructed to declare their purpose, which 
was the death of the offender only;—and to 
bring out, and send away in safety, any white 
person who might happen to be lodging there for 
the night. Nothing could more certainly declare 
the deliberation, calm resolution, and a conside¬ 
rate regard of their relations to the white people, 
and the consequences of offending them, than 
this proceeding—a proceeding scarcely to be 
expected from any, and least of all, from a 
savage people, while laboring under an excite¬ 
ment so extreme and universal. Hutton's mis¬ 
sion being concluded, and himself with the 
whites withdrawn from the dwelling, they 
sounded the terrific war-whoop, and advanced 
resolutely to the work of death. The first 
purpose of Mackintosh was to defend himself. 
He had with him, in the house, his son. Chilly 
Mackintosh, and one or two other Indians, all of 
whom were determined men. His dwelling was 
strong, and the summons of Mad Wolf, which 
was distinctly audible amid the uproar, com¬ 
manding him to 44 Come out like a man, and die 
by the laws he had himself made,” was answered 
by defiance. But his assailants were not dis¬ 
posed to afford him a chance for fight, and soon 
made it apparent that no measure of valor, in 
| actual conflict, could avail him. The torches 
blazed beneath his windows ; the flames were 
already seizing upon the timbers of his dwelling; 
when he bade his son, with the other Indians, to fly 
and leave him to his fate. They did so, and 
leaping through the windows, were permitted to 
escape ;—a few shot being fired after them, less, 
perhaps, with a view to kill them, than to hasten 
their flight. Commissioned for the destruction 
of the one offender, they confined their deadly 
attentions solely to him. Alone,—hopeless, but 
fearless, the beleaguered chief, like the wolf 
driven to his den, and rendered furious by the 
fire, rushed boldly to the entrance. It was 
; probably an instinctive movement of his hand by 
! which it grasped the rifle. He did not attempt 
I to use it, and could have had no hope that its use, 
[j even if he brought down his most fonnidable 
enemy, could have availed to extricate him from 
1 the four hundred by whom he was environed. Ifhe 
!j did not utterly despair—if his movements were not 
|| prompted solely by a desperate resolution to meet 
death with a fearless and characteristic defiance— 

; then, he probably flattered himself with the hope, 

; that his presence and his voice might arrest their 
, purpose. His former popularity, at one time 
| almost boundless, might linger still in their 
' memories;—and never, among all his people. 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


119 


had they known an orator so silver-tongued, so 
persuasive, so captivating as himself. Could 
they but be brought to look and listen—hear his 
▼oice, feel his arguments, understand his reason¬ 
ing,—or, possibly, behold the treasures which he 
could display before their eyes, to enforce bis 
entreaty,—all might yet go well, and the danger 
would pass by. Such may have been his 
thoughts, such his hopes, and, possibly, such 
might have been his success, had he been suf¬ 
fered to address the multitude. But the chiefs 
who came against him also knew his resources, 
and dreaded his arts and powers of persuasion. 
They knew too well the danger of permitting him 
to exercise them. His lips were barely parted 
for speech,—the sounds of his voice just begin¬ 
ning to be heard—when they were stilled for ever 
by the rifle of Mad Wolf. The bullet penetrated 
the mouth of the speaker, and was the signal for 
a general discharge. Nearly two hundred bul¬ 
lets took effect in the body of the victim. His 
house was burnt to ashes, and his property dis¬ 
tributed among the executioners, by the same 
law which called them into exercise, as the min¬ 
isters of its justice. 


Or if i n il, 

TO M- 


There: i* an imnee hrij'ht and fair, 

That in rnv lipwrt I keep, 

Sepininp an An pel’* form to wear, 
la virions of my *lepp : 

Nor in llm linp’rinp hours of day 
In it Ipi* 8 pure to mo, 

When I devoted homage pay 
Undiinned by mystery. 

When Sorrow stents away my friends, 
And darkens all below, 

How fair the form that o’er me bends, 
To soothe and share ray wo! 

And as it mingles in eoch fear, 

Their anguish to beguile, 

It offers me for every tear, 

Affection’s holiest smile! 

When all the bliss of earth I feel, 

And pone is dorklinp care, 

What raptures o’er my senses steal, 

As every joy ire share ! 

How deep the pleasures then that thrill! 

How sweet each varied tone! 

As every thought assures me still 
That I’m uol bles*s’d alone ! 

There is an image bright and fuir, 

Close kept within my heart,— 

That in its he.iuty dwolleth there, 

And never shall depart: 

In every care, in every joy, 

Its airy form I see ;— 

And this, that Time shall ne’er destroy, 
An Image is of thee. 


Original. 

SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM 
LONDON.— Number v. 

BY MRS. E. R. STEELE. 

A VISIT TO SALISBURY AND STONEHENGE. 

Having engaged to visit a friend in Somerset- 
! shire, we agreed to make a circuitous route to 
London around the South Coast and Isle of 
Wight, taking our friend in the way. This then, 
must be called a continuation of Excursion No. 
II. In Bristol, we found much to interest us, 
especially the Cathedral, and the church of St. 
Mary Redcliff. This is said to he the finest old 
Gothic parish church of England. It was built 
in the fifteenth century—is two hundred and 
twenty-five feet long by one hundred and twenty- 
five. The tower is one hundred and twenty feet 
with a truncated 6pire. In the open space in 
front is a monument to the brilliant but erring 
Chatterton. In this church he found, or said he 
found, the manuscripts, which shed a bright but 
1 baneful light over his short career. If he has 
had injustice done him here, there is a “ high 
world beyond our own” where he will be righted. 

1 The “dim religious light,” which the monument 
of the unhappy bard sheds upon the soul, is a 
fitting preparation for threading the mazes of the 
|j solemn pillared aisles, and contemplation of 
I time stained arch, graceful mullioned windows, 
|; and mouldering tomb. Here we found the 
|, monument of Admiral Sir William Penn, father 
| to our Penn, over which was hung his helmet 
j and antique knightly banner. Bristol must 
; always be interesting to an American, for there 
have always subsisted most amicable commercial 
I relations between us. Sebastian Cabot sailed 
hence to the Western land. I have spoken of 
Penn,—and now the Great Western alternately 
! ( anchoring in New-York or Bristol waters, seems 
!j to bring us near together. Bristol is a stirring 
! commercial place,—has many literary and scien¬ 
tific institutions—several fine churches, and 
one hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants. 
Hannah More has thrown a charm over the 
place, and in gratitude, some liberal persons of 
the city have erected a monument. This i9 not 
a structure of stone or marble in the usual man¬ 
ner, but a charity school, conducted on excellent 
I principles, by several of the chief ladies of the 
city, one of whom is our relative, where the young 
pupil learns with her book, to reverence the name 
of one who so devoted herself to benefit and en¬ 
lighten her countrymen and her race. In the 
vicinity of Bristol, upon rising ground, is built the 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON 


pretty town of Clifton, where invalids resort to 
drink the waters, and imbibe health from the 
breezes which blow over the Downs, from whose 
elevation they gaze over most enchanting 
scenery, and far down upon the winding Avon, 
which I described in my last. Tearing our¬ 
selves from these smiling scenes and dear 
friends, we were once more whirling along in the 
Great Western Railway towards Somersetshire. 
How shall I describe the varied and beautiful 
landscape which greeted us as we passed over 
the plain of Bridgewater, with its ancient town 
and pretty river, and glimpses of the Severn and 
Welsh coast—of the many quaint little villages— 
of the farms, villas, cottages—of the lovely vale 
-of Taunton, bounded by gentle rising hills, 
.covered with summer harvests! At Taunton, 
we left the railroad, as it was not finished farther. 
This is a large town, on the Tone, with several 
Jine towered and turreted churches, and market- 
house. The remains of the old Castle famous 
in the civil wars, and built by Ina, King of the 
West-Saxons, is upon one side of Castle Square, 
while Castle Ino, built in castellated form, is on 
another. Here we dined. After dinner we left 
Taunton in a post-coach, and penetrated the 
leafy groves, and hedgy pathways of luxuriant 
Somerset and Devon. At the residence of our 
relatives, we were able to appreciate the quiet 
luxury of English farm-life, and the comforts of 
those cottage-villa houses where reside the 

41 English gentlemen who live at home at ease." 

How would an American housewife, struggling 
for order with her “ help,” luxuriate in these 
houses of conafort,—how would she admire the 
neatness and order of the apartments devoted to 
the butler, the laundress, the brewer,—and above 
all, the respectful, quick, efficient servants. An 
English housewife is apparently as devoid of care 
as her guest. As in almost every family the 
“ help” have been either born in the mansion j 
or have lived there the most part of their lives. I 
In the cities, particularly, housewifery is attended 
with but little labor, as almost every kind of pro¬ 
vision is obtained by giving their orders to the 
vender, who calls for them each morning at the 
door. In venturing these remarks, I intrude into 
no privacy, as they relate not to one mansion 
alone but to the many, at which it was our privi¬ 
lege to visit. When Sunday came, we repaired 
in sober array down to the village Milverton. 
Oh, that quaint old village of Somerset, far from 
the haunts of men and rail-roads, with its mossy 
thatched stone cottages and latticed windows, 
with small leaden-framed panes, embedded in a 
wilderness of flowers! Oh, that antique ivy- 


covered church, with its Norman square stone 
tower, sending out its Sabbath chimes, while the 
rooks and daws were wheeling around it as 
keeping time to the solemn chaunt! We passed 
the crumbling tombstones, and seated ourselves 
in the old carved oak pews, so high that only the 
minister in his pulpit is seen. That pulpit was 
of oak, richly and beautifully carved. Around 
the church were suspended tablets, telling that 
in such a year, Dame so and so, left so many 
hundred pounds to support so many poor chil¬ 
dren,—or, some old knight had endowed a charity 
school for so many more. The old organ pealed, 
and the charity children chaunted—the fine Eng¬ 
lish service was read. When the sermon was 
over, and the benediction had been ptonounced, 
the villagers quietly withdrew and many of them 
stationed themselves on each side the path to 
make a low courtesy, or bow to those, who, 
higher in rank, and wealth, and education than 
themselves, they deemed of a superior order. 
Bows and kind words were returned as we passed 
along, and they separated to linger around the 
graves of their fathers, or take the pathway 
home. Our sad leave-takings over, we sat out 
in the post coach of the Inn, and in an hour 
found ourselves at Wellington. This is a town 
of about four thousand inhabitants, built upon 
the river Tone. It gives a title to the great 
General, who has a large domain here. On a 
hill a lofty column is erected in his honor, which 
on Waterloo day, is surrounded by the towns¬ 
people in grand celebration. Well does Devon¬ 
shire merit its fame for fertility and beauty. 
The fields were covered with a luxuriant crop of 
wheat, or clover, the homesteads were shining 
with flowers,—the groves and hills were rich in 
waving foliage, and the famous Devonshire cows, 
whose celebrated cream we had enjoyed so much 
lately, were revelling in knee-deep clover. Espe¬ 
cially charming to me were the fragrant hedges 
lining the roads every where with walls of living 
green, from which were peeping out the brilliant 
scarlet corn-poppy, fox-glove, valerian, and flowers 
white, blue and yellow; while festooned over the 
whole is the white honeysuckle, so cherished in 
our gardens, throwing out a delicious perfume as 
we passed. Hundreds of miles have we ridden 
between these flowery hedges, never tired of 
admiring the profusion and beauty of the blos¬ 
soms which adorn them. In the northern parts 
of England, these are low and smoothly dipt, 
but in fertile Devon and Somersetshire, they 
attain to a height and luxuriance which some¬ 
times hides the prospect for miles, except w’here 
a gateway gives you a view of the scenery, each 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


121 


opening making a sweet landscape piece. I will |! 
not linger to tell of all the little villages and ;| 
towns which we passed, but will anive at once at j 
Exeter, which we reached in time for a late din-1 
ner. In the evening we repaired to the favorite ' 
promenade of the citizens, which was near our 
hotel. This is the environs and ramparts of the 
ancient Castle of Rongemont, once the residence j 
of the Saxon Kings, whose ruins covered with | 
ivy present a pleasing feature in the scene. The i 
terraces and embankments are laid out in walks, 
shadowed by large elms, and set with benches, | 
from which we may look over the city and surrou nd- j 
ing country with the windings of the river Ex.! 
Exeter is a large county town and city, with about | 
twenty thousand inhabitants. It has a cathedral, i 
twenty churches and meeting-houses, session- 
house, county jail, infirmary, asylum, custom¬ 
house, theatre, charitable institutions, museum, I 
etc. There is here also an institution for the; 
education of Baptist missionaries, with a fine 
mission museum. Exeter carries on considera¬ 
ble woollen trade. It presents to an inhabitant of 
the new world a very curious and antique appear¬ 
ance. High-street, particularly, has many old 
houses with the second story projecting over the 
street, with large bow windows. Guild Hall, is a j 
very ancient affair, of dark carved oak. The Cathe- ! 
dral, however, absorbed all our time. These 
edifices, so grand, so exquisite in detail, are so 
totally different from any thing we can boast, that j 
they always excite my attentive interest, and ad-1 
miration. In describing that of York, a general 
idea of them has been given. The grand western 
facade is adorned with eighty-seven statues of j 
Kings, Abbots, and Archbishops, surrounded I 
with beautiful carved tracery. The tombs of the | 
celebrated family of Bohun are in this church, j 
The chiming of city bells, and cantering of the j 
fine troop of Scottish Greys of Waterloo memory, j 
proclaimed this to be a festal day. My compan¬ 
ion had been so long absent from his native shore 
as to have lost the run of the gala days, and 
asked the waiter of our inn the cause, who in¬ 
formed him it was the Queen's Ascension day. 
We then remembered it was the anniversary of 
the Sovereign’s Ascension to the throne. We 
left Exeter one fine summer day, in a post- 
chaise for Sidmouth, on the sea coast, sixteen 
miles from Exeter. There can be nothing finer 
for travelling than an English post-chaise. It 
has but one seat, and in front are windows, which 
enable the traveller to view the scenery without 
dodging out at each side window. 

How refreshing the sight of old ocean once 
more i How charming our rambles and scrambles 1 


over the cliffs, and high, green sheep downs, where 
we could gaze at will upon the rolling waves, 
some of which I delighted to fancy had touched 
my own far land. 

| The last hour of our stay, however, at pretty 
Sid month had arrived, and we seated ourselves 
m the large bow window of our sitting-room, in 
I the York Hotel, to gaze out once more over the 
j beautiful scene considered the finest on the 
| Devonshire coast. A summer morning, bright 
; as any of our own brilliant American days, was 
shining out over the ocean before us, turning the 
I wave crests to diamonds, and throwing a silvery 
' radiance over the white sea-spray as it dashed 
| up upon the dark Sandstone cliffs. Upon their 
sloping summits the grassy carpet was spotted with 
| white sheep, nibbling their early morning meal— 
the only living creature yet stirring. Soon, 
j however, horses were led down to the bathing 
machines—bathers appeared from out the dif¬ 
ferent lodging houses which alternate with the 
i billiard rooms, libraries and museums, which 
line the beach—and the broad esplanade in front 
of our hotel is now alive with early walkers, and 
the seats which are ranged along it, occupied 
. with those who, tired of bath or promenade, sit 
i watching the waves curling among the pebbles 
i below them, or the curtaiucd bathing machines, 
j which are dragged far out in the waves beyond. 
A loud horn and tramping of horses, proclaims 
the approach of a stage-coach and four—we are 
9oon seated in it, and leave pretty Sidmouth far 
behind. I should not linger thus on the road, 
or we shall never reach Salisbury. At Lyme- 
| regis we staid all that night—wandering most of 
the day about this Mausoleum of the Lizard 
family, for this is the depot of those wonders of 
geology, the Saurian family, who once dragged 
their huge bodies, geologists tell us, through the 
antediluvian mud—some sixty, and others eighty 
feet long. The grey limestone cliffs are full of 
interesting petrifactions, but the best have been 
taken away, and are in the British museum. 
The shops are filled with petrifactions of great 
! value. This town is in Dorsetshire, and is fre- 

I ’ 

quented by sea-bathers. It has the usual quan¬ 
tity of amusements, as libraries, billiard and ball 
room, and contains a population between two and 
three thousand. The scenery, after we left this 
town, was magnificent. Our road lay over a 
| style of country which is unknown with us. I 
j allude to the chalk downs;—smooth, round, 
green hills, formed of chalk, but covered with a 
short, green herbage, mixed with thyme, a sweet, 
small, purple flower, much loved by the sheep. 
There is very little cultivation upon them, they 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


being mostly used to raise sheep. The white 
lines which you see crossing their green sur¬ 
faces, is the road. The earth is here white with 
chalk, the dust of which we found very disagree¬ 
able. These hills are, some of them, four hun¬ 
dred feet high, and when steep, required six 
horses to draw us up. From the summit, we 
caught bright glimpses of the ocean, while each 
▼alley, more verdant than the hills, contained a 
pretty hamlet, surmounted by the ivied tower of 
a grey, antique church, and rustic cottages, 
covered with moss-grown thatch, lighted by lat¬ 
tice windows, and adorned with a little garden, 
gay with summer flowers. Upon the summit of 
one of these downs, we observed two Roman 
encampments; one of these, Maumbury, is said 
to be one of the most perfect specimens in Eng¬ 
land. Near one of them was a group of the 
dark-visaged sons of Egypt, huddled around their 
cooking appatatus—the first gipsies we had seen. 
We stopped to look at Dorchester, the capital of 
Dorsetshire. A long avenue of elms and beaches 
led to the entrance of the principal street, up 
which we drove, and stopped at a large hotel. 
Dorchester is a pretty town, and has quite an 
ancient appearance. There are many churches, 
among which Saint Peter’s is celebrated—also, 
meeting-houses,—charitable institutions,—town 
hall,—shire hall,—market-house, etc. A lady, 
who had been my fellow passenger, turned to me 
as we drove up the avenue, and said, “ I suppose, 
of course, you mean to try the Dorchester ale, 
which is so celebrated.” 

“ Is it very fine ?” I asked. 

“ Dear me, have you never tasted Dorchester 
ale?” 

“No, madam, nor have I ever been in this 
town before.” She looked at me in some sur¬ 
prize, as my speech was not Irish nor Scotch. 
When I told her I came from the United States, 
she gazed upon me with the greatest curiosity, 
and with an expression which said, “ is it possi¬ 
ble that this decent-looking body, dressed very 
much as we are, can have come from the United 
States?” The country now becomes richer. 
Among the wheat fields, is one three miles long, 
which we were told belonged to his little high¬ 
ness, the Prince of Wales. The sheep of Dor¬ 
setshire all have horns, a peculiarity of this 
country, which gives them a very singular ap¬ 
pearance. A very beautiful mansion, surrounded 
with smooth parks and gardens, all blooming 
bright, was pointed out as belonging to Lord 
Portman, whose lady is Lady-in-waiting to the 
Queen. At Blandford, we dined. It is a large 
town, seated on the Stour, containing about 


three thousand inhabitants. It has a newer look 
than the towns we had past, there being a new 
Grecian church, town hall, etc. The hotel was 
handsome, the rooms well furnished, and our 
dinner excellent. Here we left the post coach, 
and took post chaise to Salisbury. Upon one 
horse rode the postillion, in white corduroy 
breeches, long, white-topped boots, and blue 
jacket, set thick with white, pearl buttons. We 
were now in Wiltshire, which showed no pecu¬ 
liarity, except fences of wattles or rough basket 
work, instead of green hedges. At six o’clock 
we arrived at Salisbury, having travelled seventy- 
five miles. The coaches, however, were so 
easy, and roads so smooth, that we felt very little 
fatigue, but still were glad to see the figure of a 
white hart, decorated with a golden chair, stand¬ 
ing over the portico of a large stone house, as 
we knew that was our resting-place, the White 
Hart Hotel. All taverns and hotels, in this 
country, are obliged to exhibit either the name, 
or the image or resemblance of some peculiar 
thing by which they may be designated. A 
bright June day called us forth, and we asked 
each other, shall we visit first the far famed Salis¬ 
bury Cathedral, or drive over Salisbury Plain to 
wondrous Stonehenge ? The cathedral was 
preferred, and threading many a narrow street of 
ancient, projecting houses, and under the re¬ 
main’s of the old walls, we at last stood before 
the grey walls of this vast and majestic building, 
whose tall, graceful spire, carved curiously in 
knots and diamonds, arose four hundred feet 
above us. This cathedral is the only complete 
specimen of the early English gothic, remaining 
in England ; it was built in 1219. 

As we entered, the simplicity, the grace and 
purity of this exquisite temple excited our 
strongest admiration. The long aisles, the high- 
springing arches, supported by clusters of tall, 
slender pillars of grey marble, and the glory 
pouring over them from the three hundred and 
sixty-five windows, mostly of stained glass, pro¬ 
duced a picture grand and solemn,—but more 
touching were the mouldering monuments, on 
which knelt or lay the figures of those who here 
once walked and admired and prayed, years 
before our own couniry was visited by their race. 
The costumes were representations of those they 
had worn in life, and the features were resem¬ 
blances. The choir,—a portion divided by 
screens of oak, from the rest of the church for 
divine service—is one hundred and forty feet by 
eighty-four. Here they have departed a little 
from the severe simplicity of its architecture, and 
the carved oak canopy over the throne of tho 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


123 


bishop, is beautifully carved and decorated. On 
the great window over the altar, is a painted rep¬ 
resentation of the Resurrection. There are some 
modern monuments in this church, by Chantrey 
and Flaxman, but 1 was smitten with the mania 
for antiquity, and cast merely a glance upon 
them, beautiful as they were. Among the 
ancient monuments is one to the Boy Bishop- 
in the frolicsome days of merry England, he lead 
the Christmas revels as Abbot of Misrule. The 
chapter house is a curious, octagon building, 
used as chamber for the ecclesiastical meetings. 
Among other curious carving, is an ancient has 
relief, tunning around the sides of the apartment, 
representing scripture scenes from the creation 
to the destruction of Pharaoh’s host. From 
this we were shown, by our obliging guide, to 
the cloisters, an arcade running around four 
sides of a grassy court. Here the friars of old 
were wont to muse at evening tide, shut out 
from the passing world around, and while gazing 
at the tablets which line the walls, lift their 
thoughts from these memorials of their brethren 
who have passed away, to that eternity which 
they now inhabit. We had revelled in antiquity 
—had visited the tombs and palaces of the Eng¬ 
lish kings—of Norman, Saxon and Dane, but I 
was now to penetrate the haunts of the Druid, 
and gaze with my own eyes upon Stonehenge ? 
We drove out of town in a pretty, open, donkey 
chaise, over Salisbury Plain. Upon an eleva¬ 
tion, two miles from the city, is Old Sarum, the 
finest remains of a Roman encampment in Eng¬ 
land. Leaving our chaise, we ascended the 
embankments, which are still quite perfect in 
places, and upon the summit, found a mass of 
brick and stone, last remnant of the haughty 
Roman. The city of Sarum or Salisbury once 
stood around these ruins, but was built where it 
now stands, seven hundred years ago. The old 
one has crumbled to dust. Until lately, it has 
sent two members to parliament, and as there 
was no city, the election was held in a booth 
under a tree, which is now shown to the travel¬ 
ler. This rotten borough has been abolished. 
From this spot is a fine view of the city of Salis¬ 
bury with its cathedral and inimitable spire. 
Salisbury Plain i9 nearly thirty miles square, 
covered with a short grass and the sweet, pur¬ 
ple thyme, so fragrant and so agreeable to the 
sheep. Over it were scattered many flocks, each 
guarded by a shaggy dog, and shepherd with bis 
crook. A shepherd and his crook 1 had often 
seen in pictures, and had read of, but this was 
my first glance of the veritable articles them¬ 
selves. We looked among them, thinking of 


Hannah More’s old shepherd, that greatest of all 
philosophers, whose happy maxim was, “ what¬ 
ever pleases God, pleases me.” Nor was dear, 
quaint, pious Herbert forgotten, whose footpath 
led over this plain to the city. We passed the 
pretty village of Araesbury, and the beautiful 
house and grounds of Sir Edmond Antrobus, 
and then all signs of cultivation ceases, and we 
find ourselves alone on a wild plain. No human 
being or habitation was in sight, when amid this 
dreary solitude, in the centre of the plain, we 
saw the old hoary temple of the Druids, where 
it had stood ‘ since the world began,’ for aught 
we knew. It consists of three circles of huge, 
massy stones, inclosing a diameter of one hun¬ 
dred feet. These are fashioned by some rude 
instrument, to about ten feet wide, and thirty 
high. A row of long stones lay on the tops of 
these, connecting the circle, and fastened by 
grooves being made in the upper ones, and a 
spike cut out of the top of those standing. 
The inner circles are shorter stones. Many of 
them are fallen, and we were thus able to ex¬ 
amine the grooves in the top. The outer stones 
are fine, white sand-stone, the next, grey gneiss, 
and the last, a blue, slaty stone. In the centre 
is a stone altar. These different circles were for 
different grades of priests and people, perhaps, 
as in the Hebrew courts, while the Arch-Druid 
stood in the sanctum within. It takes one’s 
breath away to think of the ages which have 
passed since this extraordinary temple was erec¬ 
ted ! How many nations, and faiths, have come 
and gone, since that day! By choosing such 
imperishable materials, they deemed their fane 
would stand until the world should decay. And 
it will remain—not as they fondly hoped, to per¬ 
petuate their worship, but as a monument of 
their destruction ; a triumphal arch for Christ! 
Desolate is it now—not a living creature near it, 
—no moss, no ivy in pity covering it; the image 
and superscription stamped upon it is death! 
How these immense masses of stone were here 
transported, and how erected, in those early and 
rude ages, is one of the wonders of Stonehenge. 
The worship of Greece and Rome may have 
been more gorgeous, and there might have been 
more in their beautiful temples to please the 
imagination of men, but there was a serene sim¬ 
plicity and solemnity in the Druid rites, which 
is far more touching and elevating to the soul. 
Art, with all its glorious accessories, was rejec¬ 
ted, and they worshipped alone in nature. From 
their rude stone temple, they looked to the blue 
sky over them, and the groves of majestic oaks 
which waved around them. Like the ancient 


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124 


THE CARNIVAL. 


prophets of old, the Druids ruled as patriarchs 
and judges of the people. Their teaching was 
rude as their age, and consisted of a few laws,— 
worship the Gods, do no evil, and be heroic under 
difficulties. As they worshipped fire upon their 
altars, and believed in the transmigration of souls, 
built no temples, except these rude erections, and 
worshipped the Misletoe; they were probably 
disciples of Zoroaster. The Celts are supposed 
to be of eastern origin, and in this manner might 
their faith have been here transported. While 
on this spot, one imagines the New Year day’s 
gathering of the sacred Misletoe—the procession 
of white-robed priests crowned with oak-leaf 
garlands—the white bull led to sacrifice—the 
gloom of their awe-inspiring oaks, as the train 
enter the “Jouely coverts of the grove,” and stand 
around the wreathed oak. The Arch-Druid 
then approaches, and with a golden knife, cuts 
the mistletoe boughs, which fall in the next 
priest’s lap; the air is then filled with the songs 
of bards and triumphal rejoicing. Let us hope, 
with the historians, the account of their sacrifice | 
of human life is not correct, or is a scandal of the , 
Romans, when they wished to extingnish their; 
faith. It lived, however, long in the hearts of 
the people, and some of their rites are still con¬ 
tinued, we are told, in May-day frolics—mid¬ 
summer eve—all hallow, mass, and Christmas 
misletoe. 


O r i f i n o I. 

TO MARIA. 

BY THK LATE SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

What if the awful mandate should be given, 

By Him who spoke creation into birth, 

To blot for ever from the map of Heaven 
The polar star—would this enamored earth 
Still pay its adoration to the spot 
Where once it twinkled ? Banish such a thought— 
Nay, dear Maria, believe me, it would not. 

And would the widowed needle still present 
Its polished point to where that planet shone? 
Would all its mystic powers be idly spent, 

Its homage paid to vacancy alone, 

While Love’s warm star was beaming in the West? 
Oh, no—its influence soon would be confest— 

Till pointed there the trembler would not rest. 

Such is thy heart—its favorite star is gone, 

And is it doomed to tremble without rest? 

Oh, must such matchless beauty rest alone, 

Designed by Heaven to make a lover blest ? 

Oh, no, dear girl! defeat not Heaven’s design, 
Reward my love; oh, say thou wilt be mine, 

Or give me hope, and I will not repine. 


O r I f i n 1 1. 

THE CARNIVAL; 

OR, THE MOCK-MARR1AOE.—A TALE. 


1Y THE AUTHOR OF “ LAFITTE,” “K YD,” AND THE “QUADROON.” 


I. 

It was the gay season of the Carnival. The 
streets of Vienna were thronged with motley 
processions, and music and the merry laugh and 
the voice of pleasure were substituted for the 
hum of commerce, the serious tones of business 
and the brow of care. The city had put on its 
holiday suit, and mirth and revelty reigned from 
hall to hovel. Night came and the streets were 
filled with maskers on their way to various places 
of amusement. The gorgeous hall of the Hotel 
de l’Empereur was lighted up with the splendor 
of noon, and its avenues were thronged with the 
carriages, and caleches of the 61 ite; and graceful 
and stately women in masks, and noble appearing 
men, in rich costumes, alighted from them and 
ascended the broad stair to the hall to which 
they were directed by the sounds of music and 
revelry, that gaily reached the ear. 

Beside the door stood marshals to receive the 
swords of the gentlemen, at the same time, ac¬ 
cording to the usual regulations, commanding 
each as he passed into the hall to lift his or her 
mask. The object of the first being to prevent 
blood-shedding in any chance quarrel; that of 
the latter to see that no improper person 
entered. 

“ Nay, Sieur Marshal, thou shalt not have my 
sword, nor by mine honor will I lift mask at any 
man’s bidding.” 

These were the words spoken by a tall, but 
evidently youthful masker, representing a Vene¬ 
tian cavalier. The elegant and graceful costume 
displayed his fine person to advantage; while his 
lofty and haughty carriage gave an air of truth to 
the assumed character; for ne’er a cavalier of 
Venice carried himself with nobler bearing. 
He wore a slender rapier at his thigh; and his 
face was closely concealed in a black silk visor. 
A snowy plume depending from his velvet cap 
swept his left shoulder, from which his scarlet 
mantle, silvered with embroidered flowers, fell 
gracefully, as low as his breast. On his arm 
hung a graceful female figure, slight of form, but 
with a proud carriage. She wore the costume 
of a noble Venetian lady, and was masked in a 
half visor of silk, which left exposed a chin and 
throat of the most exquisite beauty. 

The voice of the cavalier, as he answered the 


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THE CAENITAL/ 


125 


marshal, was arrogant and defying. The corridor 
without was thronged with maskers, waiting to 
enter, and regarding with surprize and curiosity 
the extraordinary scene. 

“ Nay, then, Monsieur/* replied the marshal, 
placing his sword across the entrance, “thou 
sbalt not pass.” 

“ I will not be stayed by a servitor of the hall! 
Stand aside, marshal/ 1 answered the cavalier, 
fiercely; and he drew his sword and struck down 
the weapon that opposed his passage. 

“ Ho! Les gens d 1 armes! Ho, the guard!” 
shouted the marshal, and the crowd without. 

“ Arrite vous , Monsieur,” challenged a second 
marshal within the door, placing the point of his 
sword at his breast. 

But the bold cavalier struck it aside, and 
passing into the hall mingled with the throng of 
maskers before he eould be arrested, and when 
the gens d 1 armes arrived he was not to be dis¬ 
covered with the strictest search. 

Half an hour elapsed and a monk of the Capu¬ 
chin order eame to the door of the hall and 
applied for admittance. His cowl was down and 
his features invisible. 

“ Lift your mask, good father,” said the 
marshal. 

“Nay—the rule applies not to me—masks 
only are to be lifted,” answered the Capuehia. 

“But dost thou not call thy cowl a mask ? It 
surely is, or thou art a true monk, and as such 
can have no business here.” 

“I have business here, and cannot be delayed; 
stand aside, son!” 

The marshal awed by his voice and manner, 
instinctively drew aside, and the monk entered 
and was lost to* the eye of the bewildered marshal 
in the crowd of maskers. 

ii. 

The scene is in the Imperial palace. The Em¬ 
peror is alone in hie audience chamber, about the 
hour of the masquerade. His brow is troubled, 
and he paces up and down the apartment with 
his band* behind him. He suddenly stops and 
summons a page. 

“ Send M — ■», hither.” 

The order had hardly been issued and the 
page had not quit the presence when his Minis¬ 
ter sent in requesting an audience. 

“ Admit him. Well, M—what now? 11 he 
said, when the page departed, and closed the 
door leading into the anti-room. “Yourman¬ 
ner indicates haste! Any more of this mad 
youth’s pranks!” 

“ I am sorry to say that he is again the subject 
of my visit to your Imperial highness.” 

16 


“ Out with it. I have lost all patience with 
him. If he escapes again he shall be shot. I will 
give the soldiers instructions to fire upon him I” 

“ This would be impolitic, your highness, 
and bring the censure of all Europe upon you!” 

“ I would not care, so he were out of it. But 
what have you now ?” 

“ He has again eluded the vigilance of his 
keepers, and has fled from the gardens, but has 
not left the city. I have made every inquiry and 
parties are secretly on the search.” 

“ I will have Colonel-■ shot for his neglect. 

How happened this?” demanded the Emperor, 
in a fierce tone of displeasure^ 

“He was suffered to walk in the grounds as 
usual, at four this afternoon, with the usual pre¬ 
cautions of a soldier following him, and a porter- 
sentinel. By some means he suddenly vanished 
from the eyes of the soldier and sentinel, as if he 
had dissolved into air. The men hastened to the 
8pot, pursued every avenue, and hunted the 
whole enclosure in vain. One of them then, 
satisfied of his prisoner’s escape, turned his mus¬ 
ket upon himself, and blew out bis own brains.” 

“ He did wisely, and only anticipated with his 
own haud the work another would have soon 
done. What of his fellow 1” 

“He came tremblingly to Colonel —, and 
told the truth, that no further time might be 
lost in the search after him. He was placed 

under arrest, and Colonel-, reports that at 

once every means were set on foot to discover the 
fugitive.” 

“And without success V 1 

“ Not wholly, your majesty. After night 
closed in, and Colonel — could yet learn 
nothing of him, he waited on me with his 
report.” 

“You placed him under arrestf” said the 
Emperor, sternly. 

“ No, your highness; his liberty was neces¬ 
sary for the present, to aid in prosecuting the 
search.” 

“ As soon as you leave me, issue an order for 
his arrest.” 

“Yourmajesty shall be obeyed. But may if 
please your highness to hear me further. 
While he was with me, a person was announced 
who came in guarded by two soldiers, who had 
reported in the street that he saw a man descend 
the garden-wall by means of a grape-vine, where 
a Capuchin friar met him and hurried him 
away.” 

“A Capuchin! I will raise their monastery 
for this treason. What said the fellow further ?” 

“ Nothing that we could act from with any cer* 


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126 


THE CARNIVAL. 


tainty. I then made no delay, but hastened to 
acquaint your majesty with what had occurred.” 

44 And you have done it as quietly as if you had 
come to tell me the young prince’s squirrel had 
broke his cage and taken flight. This is no light 
matter.” 

44 I am aware of the importance attached to 
the safe custody of this young man.” 

44 The peace of Europe, nothing less. How 
now, sir page!” 

44 General, the Count-, desires an audience 

with your majesty on a matter of moment.” 

44 This may touch upon this affair, M-. 

Admit him. But how can he have heard of this 
escapade ? If it is known that he has escaped, 
and is still in the city, there is such a romantic 
sympathy for him, that half the hiding closets in 
Vienna will be open for him. Let it be kept 
only among the soldiery on duty. Good even, 
Count! What tidings bring you that you come 
at this hour, and in this hurried guise into our 
presence ?” 

44 1 beg your majesty pardon a father’s anxiety, 
which can give him little leisure tq pay deference 
to time and costume. I have come hither to 
Bolicit your majesty’s aid in finding my daughter, 
for she cannot yet have quit the city. During 
my absence from home two hours ago, she fled, 
leaving this note, saying that before I beheld her 
again she should be the bride of the man who 
had long held her heart.” 

44 Then ’twill be a happy bridal! But I will 
jest not with thy grief, for we have ours also. 
Saw no one the flight ? Suspect you no one ?” 

44 1 do not, your highness. She never had an 
attachment—for she is very young—save for one 
person, and he it cannot be.” 

44 And who was he ?” demanded the Emperor, 
quickly. 

“The youthful French prince, your majesty’s 
protect! They often met in childhood, and 
occasionally since!” 

44 And he, and no one else has run away with 
your daughter!” cried the Emperor. 44 We have 
just had intelligence of his escape. It is plain 
enough now that Colonel — has been out¬ 
generaled! Love and a woman! If thy daugh¬ 
ter be taken, she stands a chance of being 
arrested as a traitor, Count!” 

hi. 

We will now go back to a period still prior to 
the night of the carnival. The cruel imprison¬ 
ment of young Napoleon by the Austrian govern¬ 
ment, is well known to the world, and has, per¬ 
haps, more deeply moved the sympathies of the 
young of all nations, than the fate of any other 


living personage. During this imprisonment, 
when at the age of seventeen, he was detained 
for some weeks at a monastery, the garden of 
which adjoined that of the castle of General 
Count—who had an only daughter of the age of 
fourteen, who often came to the barrier, and by 
the indulgence of his keepers, talked with the 
prince ; for she knew his story, and felt for his 
sad fate. They thus became acquainted, and 
the prince, from being grateful, became deeply 
enamored with the beautiful, generous-hearted 
girl, who, in many ways, secretly tried to soften 
the rigors of his imprisonment. After the prince 
was removed, on this very account, to closer 
quarters in the city, this young maiden deeply 
interested her confessor in his fate. Three years 
passed on, during which interval, by accident, 
she had twice met the young Napoleon, and 
they had interchanged glances. It was enough. 
Each felt that they were beloved. At length the 
maiden resolved to make a bold effort to effect 
his escape. Father - — — she knew to be her 
firm friend, and a friend also of the unfortunate 
prince, for he had been in Bonaparte’s army. 
To him she committed her plans. True to her 
confidence in him, he promised to second her 
wishes. He succeeded in corrupting the prince’s 
confessor so far as to make him the medium 
of a correspondence between the two lovers. 
This correspondence continued for some time, 
when the prince declared his passion and hit 
desire to be united with her. He was now 


twenty-one, she seventeen, and both were beau¬ 
tiful ! he, tall and manly, she, lovely as woman¬ 
hood in its first spring-time. 

But how should he escape! how should they 
meet! how should they be united ! bow should 
they afterwards fly ? 

These were obstacles indeed, but Love is pow¬ 
erful, and will prevail. At length circumstances 
favored them. A masquerade was to take place 
the third night of the carnival; and this sug- 
gested an idea to her mind. She sought her 
confessor, and through him her plan was made 
known to the prince, who had, the day before, in 
a note written, 44 whenever you can find a shelter 
for me without, I feel confident of being able to 
elude my sentinels. It is not so difficult to 
escape from the garden as to elude observation 
in the street; for my person is known to every 
soldier in the city, for once a month my good 
relative, the Emperor, passes them in review, or 
rather me in review before them at my balcony. 
I have discovered a tree which I can easily 
ascend, (having been practising it, seemingly, for 
exercise,) from which extends a lateral limb 


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THE CARNIVAL. 


127 


which touches another growing from another 
tree. Along this I can reach the branch of a 
third tree, and so a fourth and fifth, ’till the last 
limb brings me within reach of the wall, which 
is a hundred feet distant from the first tree. I 
can pass along these limbs if I can leap unob¬ 
served into the tree, entirely concealed by the 
foliage. This way, if any, affords me the means 
of escape.” 

It has been seen that he availed himself of it 
with singular success. This is the note in reply 
to his, which led him to make the attempt: 

“ My noble friend will avail himself of the means he 
has explained when he next walks in the garden at four 
F. M. A capuchin will receive him, and conduct him 
to his monastery which is close at hand. There he will 
ascertain what further touches hU safety.” 

The prince, on letting himself down from the 
wall, was hurried by the monk into the court of 
the monastery, and conducted to his cell. There, 
to his surprize, the prince beheld the disguise of 
a Venitian cavalier, which a note from the daugh¬ 
ter of Count desired him to assume. He 

obeyed, and then looked to the monk for further 
Instructions. 

44 Is it your highness* desire to be wedded to 
the maiden who has facilitated your escape ?” 
asked the monk. 

44 This would only complete the happiness of 
this hour of freedom,” he answered, warmly. 
44 Our hearts are one, father; why may not our 
hands be ?” 

44 Then hear the plan arranged for this con¬ 
summation. To-night is the great masquerade 
at the hotel de 1’ Empereur! It is planned that 
you accompany the young Countess - 
hither, she in the costume of a noble Venitian 
lady. There, I shall also be present, and during 
the various scenes that take place there for the 
amusement of the guests, you shall come up to 
‘me, and gaily propose to be united to the lady 
for the entertainment of the company. I will 
then proceed, and go through with the marriage 
ceremony which shall solemnly unite you.” 

44 This is well conceived, and may succeed,” 
said the prince; 44 but how shall I meet with the 
fair Countess Nitenne ?” 

44 Come with me,” answered the capuchin, 
Leading the way along the shadow of the corri¬ 
dor to a postern, which he opened and passed 
through. 

A few minutes’ walk through the streets, which 
was filled with maskers, among whom they attrac¬ 
ted no particular attention, brought them into a 
lane in the rear of the gardens of the General 
Count ——. 

44 Wait here a few moments, your highness,” 


said the capuchin, unlocking a private gate, and 
disappearing in the garden. 

Before the prince had time to grow impatient, 
the monk ^re-appeared, leading the Countess 
Nitenne, whom young Napoleon ardently clasped 
to his heart. In a minute afterwards, a carriage 
which the monk had provided, came up* and 
getting into it, they drove to the Hotel de 1’ Em¬ 
pereur, leaving the monk, who said he would 
soon follow. 

44 Your highness will not remove your mask 
during the evening,” he added to the prince, as 
he took his leave. 

44 No,” answered the prince, firmly. 

IV. 

44 There is to be a mock marriage in the other 
part of the saloon,” said several of the maskers; 
and a general movement of the crowd wa9 made 
towards that quarter, to witness it. In the midst 
stood the Yenitian cavalier and the lady, both 
masked, but both striking, from the grace and 
dignity of their persons and carriage. Near 
them stood the capuchin. A marble pedestal 
was converted into an altar, by placing upon it a 
crucifix and candles snatched from the candela¬ 
bra. 

44 Kneel, children!” said the capuchin, solemn¬ 
ly. They knelt, and the monk proceeded to go 
through the service, while all the crowd stood 
around, observing it as they would a scene in a 
play. 

v. 

The Emperor and his minister, Metternich, 
and General, the Count ——, were still together, 
when a messenger entered, and announced an 
officer of the guard. He was admitted. 

44 Pardon, your majesty—but if the Prince 
Napoleon has not escaped, there is in Vienna a 
person whose voice and carriage are his own.” 

44 What mean you ? Of whom do you speak ?” 

A mask, attired as a Venitian cavalier, who 
entered the hall a few minutes since, as I was 
loitering near. He refused to lift his visor, and 
forced his way in, with a lady on his arm, also 
masked, and habited as a Venitian. His resem¬ 
blance in voice and air to the prince, induced me 
to hasten hither to inform your majesty.” 

44 You have done well, Colonel Necker. I 
give you my commands to take with you suffi¬ 
cient means, and arrest and bring before me this 
cavalier. Haste, and return soon, with him and 
the lady in custody. Metternich, you will also 
accompany him. It must be our down bird.” 

44 And he is as silly as a bird, to appear thus 
publicly. I will soon ascertain who this cavalier 
is, your highness.” 


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128 


THS LESSON OP OMAR. 


VI. 

The ceremony of marriage was ended, and the 
priest was pronouncing his benediction, when a 
commotion was apparent in the farther part of 
the hall near the door, and the throng gave way 
in terror before the stride of Metternich and the 
officers of the Imperial Police. 

“ What means all this V* demanded Metter¬ 
nich of a general officer, as he came near. 

“ A moc k marriage, prince, but, by the mass! 
the priest hath done it with a grace and unction 
as if he were in right earnest. There stand the 
happy couple, who, were the capuchin not a 
priest in masquerade, are as safely tied as ever 
were man and wife !” 

M They are the two,” said Colonel Necker.” 

“ It is he ! arrest them ! Also the capuchin !” 

The prince resisted, and drew his sword. In 
the melee, his mask fell off, and betrayed to all 
eyes the well known features of the captive 
prince. There was a general utterance of sur¬ 
prize, and a feeling of deep interest! Simulta¬ 
neously, several of the maskers made a move¬ 
ment so as to obstruct the police, and favor his 
escape. He was soon separated from Prince 
Metternich and Colonel Necker, and before the 
mass could be penetrated, the bridegroom and 
bride had been assisted by some French officers 
out of the hall into a carriage. Several of the 
gentlemen sprung upon the box and the foot¬ 
board, and it drove with rapidity to a distant part 
of the city, where the prince and his bride were 
soon in safety in a retired mansion near the walls, 
occupied by a French officer. Here they re¬ 
mained many a month, secreted, while every 
means were set on foot by the Emperor for their 
discovery, and at the same time plans were con¬ 
stantly forming by their friends for getting them 
out of the city. 

At length their retreat was discovered. The 
prince was arrested, but his wife escaped in dis¬ 
guise, and reached Paris. His confinement was 
now more rigorous than before; the severity of 
which, added to his grief at the separation from 
his lovely and devoted wife, soon wore upon his 
spirits and health; and in a few’ months after¬ 
wards be died a captive. The Princess Nitenne, 
who had implored to share his captivity, and had 
been forcibly borne from danger by the faithful 
French officers, on hearing of his death, gave 
birth to a son, and surrendered up her life. 
This child, the grandson of Napoleon, still lives 
not far from Paris, a treasure dearly guarded and 
cherished by those who, disappointed in their 
hopes of his father, look forward to the day, not 
far distant, when France shall once more rule 
the nations under the destiny of a Napoleon. 


O r J f 1 n a 1. 

THE LESSON OF OMAR.* 


BT MRS. E. F. ELLET. 

Omar and Mahmoud, were the sons of a poor 
man, who lived in the suburbs of Bagdad, aod 
inherited but a trifling sum at their father's 
death. But fortune smiled upon the little they 
had, so that in a few years they became eminent 
merchants in Bagdad. Mahmoud was benevo¬ 
lent, and lived freely, entertaining strangers with 
unbounded hospitality; Omar was more covetous, 
yet it so fell out that the speculations he ven¬ 
tured upon to increase his wealth, diminished it 
sorely, and he found the strictest prudence 
necessary to save him from bankruptcy. In his 
embarrassments Mahmoud came promptly to his 
relief. 

Ere long, as Omar had often foretold, the libe¬ 
rality of Mahmoud worked his ruin. Several 
persons for whom he had stood security, failed, 
and he was obliged to pay their debts. One of 
his ships, laden with a valuable cargo, was lost at 
sea ; and his creditors, seeing the state of affairs, 
pressed for immediate payment. In his difficul¬ 
ties, the merchant had recourse to his brother; 
but to his astonishment and grief, Omar refused 
to give him more than five hundred zechins, that 
amount having been once paid over to him by 
Mahmoud. The soul of the generous brother 
was pierced by this meanness; and without a 
word, he returned to his house, and the next day 
called a meeting of his creditors. To them he 
delivered up all his effects, and left Bagdad with 
bis wife and child, leaving no adieu for his 
unnatural brother. 

It was not long before Omar felt the conse¬ 
quences of his barbarous conduct. His brother's 
failure injured his own credit; and people began 
to shun aod distrust one who had shown himself 
hard-hearted towards his own flesh and blood. 
It seemed as if Fate had determined to avenge 
Mahmoud; one loss followed after another. 
Omar murmured bitterly, but would not ask 
assistance; indeed he knew not to whom to 
apply, He had seen his brother’s summer 
frieuds scatter at the first blast of adversity, and 
he had always lived up to his maxim that it was 
safest to have no friends. At last, being without 
the means of paying the debts that were due, and 
pressed by clamorous creditors, he came to the 
resolution to quit Bagdad secretly, leaving his 
house and furniture to satisfy the most importu¬ 
nate claims. 

• Thit Util« tile it altorod from “ Dio Br&der” ofTiock. 

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THE LESSON OF OMAR. 


129 


He departed at night, carrying with him a 
small sum of money, which alas! soon melted 
away. His misery increased as he saw his 
treasure diminish. 

He had wandered close to the boundary of his 
native country. All his money was gone except 
three small coins, with which he intended to pay 
for supper at some caravansary ; and filled with 
gloomy thoughts, he sought out a place where 
he could pass the night. 

44 How wretched am I!” he said to himself. 
44 Fate is my enemy, and has resolved on my 
rain. I must die, or subsist on alms; must bear 
the pity and scorn of those who are my inferiors. 
What a dreadful lot! Oh, poverty! how canst 
thou abase a man! Fortune! how partial art 
thou, and unjust! Thy favors are showered on 
the unworthy; the virtuous may die of hunger.” 

Omar forgot that he had once shared the 
favors of fortune. Weary of the hard rock, he 
took his seat on a knoll of turf beside the high¬ 
way. Ere long his painful revery was disturbed 
by an incoherent noise ; and he saw on the road 
a beggar walking with crutches. He was covered 
with squalid rags; pale and emaciated; his 
sunken eyes were blood-shot; and his whole 
appearance calculated to move compassion. He 
stretched out his poor, thin hand with a gesture 
of supplication to Omar, who asked him his 
Dame. The beggar shook his head sadly, mur¬ 
mured an inarticulate noise, and then Omar 
comprehended that he was deaf and dumb. 

A thrill of pity ran through his veins. 44 And 
I—I murmured, but now!” he said to himself. 
Can I not labor? will not labor supply my 
wants ? And this poor beggar—how gladly 
would he change places with me! I was 
ungrateful towards heaven!” 

In the impulse of his generosity, he gave 
his last coins to the beggar, who after a low 
obeisance, moved away. 

The heart of Omar felt lightened, and it 
seemed to him that the All merciful had vouch¬ 
safed to him this vision, to show him how mise¬ 
rable man can be, and to teach him content. He 
felt strength within him to endure and overcome 
poverty. He formed a thousand plans, and 
wished only for an opportunity to put them in 
practice, and prove his industry. 

A little further on, a higher rock overlooked 
the way; and to the top of this Omar climbed, 
that he might survey the surrounding country. 
At his feet lay rich plains, diversified with streams 
and forests, and bounded by majestic mountains, 
crimsoned with the glory of the setting sun. 
Omar's soul expanded within him as he gazed on 


the beautiful scene, and he felt as if all the land¬ 
scape belonged to him. 44 Mine are those gor¬ 
geous bills, those burnished streams,” he ex¬ 
claimed— 44 by heavenly grant, and man cannot 
take away this rich possession.” 

He sate down on the rock, resolved to go no 
further 'till the rising of the moon, and feasted 
his eyes on the beauty of nature, which he had 
never discerned 'till now. The crimson and 
gold faded from the west, the mountains grew 
dark, the stars, one by one came out in the 
clear blue sky; and Omar, by the tranquil love¬ 
liness of the scene, and by the deep silence that 
had fallen over the earth, lay striving to number 
the multitude of stars, and thinking of the majesty 
of that Being who had formed the heavens and 
hung this globe in space. 

He took no note of time while thus employed, 
but was startled all at once by the appearance of 
a brilliant beam of light shooting upwards from 
the farthest horizon to the zenith. There in 
space it hung so bright that the stars grew pale 
before it, as it were another sun; and the 
heavens were filled with a soft and rosy radiance; 
which gradually descended to the earth. Omar 
saw with amazement that it overhung him like a 
tent, spreading over the plains and woods, and 
covering the mountains, while the clouds on 
their summits were bathed in palest gold. 

44 1 salute thee, virtuous and compassionate, 
one!” said a voice of the softest melody, above 
him ; and the entranced Omar, as his ears drank 
in the delicious harmony, and his eyes opened 
to the shape of unspeakable beauty hovering in 
the air, knew that it was the angel Azkael. 

44 Come,” said the spirit-voice— 44 for Allah looks 
down on thee with pleasure. Come to the man¬ 
sions of light.” 

44 How can a mortal follow thee, angel of 
death?” asked Omar, tremblingly—and the voice 
answered— 

44 Give me thine hand.” 

Suddenly the vision disappeared, and it was 
night. Omar awoke with a shriek of agony, for 
he had fallen from the top of the rock, and 
broken his leg. The moon had just arisen, and 
poured her light upon the spot where he lay. 

As his senses collected themselves, the unfor¬ 
tunate traveller began to complain more bitterly 
than before. 44 Was not my evil fate satisfied,” 
groaned he, 44 but I must be beguiled by a false 
dream, and fall from the rock, to die here the 
prey of hunger? How have I deserved such 
accumulated misfortunes? Who is now more 
wretched than I ?” 

A rustling among the bushes interrupted him, 


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130 


THR MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 


and presently he saw the beggar, who had in¬ 
dulged himself with a short repose, pass on the 
road at a little distance. Omar called aloud for 
help, but the cripple he had succoured, could not 
hear; and he did not see him, because he had 
(alien on the other side of the rock. Again the 
poor merchant cursed his destiny. 

As the hours of night wore on, his leg grew 
eery painful, and fever burned in his veins; nay 
h seemed that every breath caused him pain. 
Omar thought death approaching, and recalled 
the deeds of his past life. Then it was that he 
thought of bis brother, and of his own cruel con¬ 
duct towards him. 

44 Oh, wicked Omar!” a voice seemed to say 
within him 44 you dreamed that Heaven was open 
to you, because moved by a generous impulse, 
you gave some money to a beggar; what will 
one good action do towards balancing a life of 
selfishness ?” 

Omar acknowledged himself guilty and lost; 
and wept tears of repentance. 44 Could I but 
live to ask forgiveness of God, and wish for 
death!” 

The moon was still shining, when a small 
drove of camels came slowly through the valley. 
It was a caravan. The love of life revived iu 
Omar's breast: he called to the men, and im¬ 
plored their assistance. They brought him out, 
and placed him on a camel, to be carried to the 
next town. They reached this by day break, and 
the merchant to whom the caravan belonged, 
having sent for medical help, came himself, to 
inquire after the sick stranger. Omar started as 
he recognized his brother Mahmoud. It was 
indeed he; and with tears and anguish, the peni¬ 
tent brother confessed his fault, and prayed for 
pardon before he should die. 

44 You shall not die, my brother!” cried the 
compassionate Mahmoud; and truly, from this 
moment he took the fortunes of Omar into his 
care. He had himself entered into a lucrative 
business at Ispahan, and thither, as soon as Omar 
recovered, the two brothers repaired. They 
became once more wealthy and happy ; but 
Omar never forgot, in his prosperity, the lessons 
reverse had taught him. 


Truth will ever be unpalatable to those who 
are determined not to relinquish error, but can 
never give offence to the honest and well-meiui- 
ing: for the plain-dealing remonstrances of a 
friend differ as widely from the rancor of nn 
enemy, as the friendly probe of a surgeon from 
the dagger of an assassin. 


O r i f i n a 1. 

THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.* 

ITS CONSEQUENCES, WITH A MORAL—IF THE 
READER CAN FIND IT OUT- 


Notwithstanding the opinion of certain 
aristocrats who take pleasure in vilifying tho 
producing classes, it must be confessed that if 
they have faults of a flagrant character, they also 
possess qualities that are invaluable. Certes, 
there are but few who can say which of these 
two things, the flagrant faults or the rare qualities, 
would turn the scales, but all the world might 
affirm, without fear, that among the working 
classes, qualified as brutes and drunkards, there 
are those who, full of courage and self denial, 
have succeeded in raising themselves above the 
vulgar as much by their exemplary conduct as 
by their intelligence, developed by dint of labo¬ 
rious and painful study. The number is 6mall 
we admit, but this proves that there is wanting 
but the assistance of the wealthy to double that 
number. 

Unfortunately many workmen who seek to 
improve themselves, turn pale before the obstacles 
that they meet with. The body shattered by 
long and painful labor—deprived of elementary 
works proper to initiate them in the sciences 
they burn to master, they waste their time in 
useless efforts, which far from being favorable, 
serve but to plunge them yet deeper in that 
moral lethargy which envelopes the greater part 
of their fellow laborers. Besides, tired of 
studying unsuccessfully, they feed their already 
too much heated imagination, with unhealthy 
and often immoral romances. What is the 
result?—debauch or disillusion! Some be¬ 
come gross and perverse—others, whose minds 
are filled with intoxicating chimeras, lose them¬ 
selves in ethereal regions, from which they are 
sure to fall mortally wounded. 

The following recital will give your readers 
proof positive of the fact we have just advanced. 
It is a true story from beginning to end, 
changing only the name of the young man who 
is the hero of it. 

In the course of last winter, Paul Bertrand, a 
young journeyman mechanician, left Lyons, his 
native city, and went to Paris to make himself 
perfect in his profession. Virtuously brought up 
by his parents, who were in easy circumstances, 
Paul had contracted a great repugnance for the 
morals of the working classes, whom he loved, 

* From the French (net) of Eofese Sue. 


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TRE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 


131 


however, as brothers, but whose society he always 
avoided, fearing that his friendship for them 
would cool if he approached the threshold of 
their pleasures. 

Always alone during the few moments left him 
by his labors, having a sort of melancholy, for 
the existence of which he could not account, he 
sought to fill up the void he felt in his life, by 
reading. It became a passion. Every evening 
after his labors he greedily devoured the 
feuielleton of some journal, and his stay at Paris, 
far from weakening this growing passion, gave 
it on the contrary greater intensity. It was his 
favorite pleasure—he could not sleep without 
having taken his potion dc lecture. His plea¬ 
sures which furnished him emotions more or 
less lively, had not yet drawn him into the golden 
land of chimeras. This came about, however, 
and, void comment: 

All the world will remember the immense 
success which attended the publication of the 
“ Mysteries of Paris,” from its debut. The | 
success of this work, which the author finished 
but yesterday, increased from day to day. At 
last the “ Mysteries” fell into Paul’s hands, and 
made the most profound impression on him. j 
Among the numerous personages of this beauti- j 
ful romance, one alone particularly attracted the j 
attention of the young mechanician; it was that j 
of the Goualeuse, Fleur de Marie. He saw her j 
in all his dreams—in fact he had but one ever 
present thought, that of rescuing some lost one 
from the mire and making her his own. 

One evening, when his imagination was filled 
with this idea, and he was about entering the 
narrow dark alley, at the bottom of which was the 
staircase that led to his small apartment, he 
heard a piercing cry, which arrested him on the 
threshold. He hurried immediately to the spot 
from which the cry came, and there saw a young 
girl extended upon the pavement, and a little | 
further on a retreating coach, the horses of 
which were receiving rather a vigorous supply of 
the whip. He bent over the young girl and 
found her in a swoon. Then throwing a glance 
through the whole length of the street, he; 
saw that all the stores were closed. For an 
instant he knew not what to do, but thinking it 
would be inhuman to leave the young girl in that 
state, he took her up carefully in his powerful j 
aims; then mounting slowly the flight of stairs I 
that led to his chamber, he placed her on his j 
bed and was prodigal of his eager cares. 

For a quarter of an hour, “there or there¬ 
abouts,” his anxiety received no reward, but 
anon the young girl opened her eyes. Then 


throwing a glance expressive of suffering around 
her, and seeing Paul who was watching her with 
the most painful interest, she exclaimed : 

“Who are you, Monsieur? Who brought 
me here ?” 

“Re-assure yourself, Mademoiselle,” replied 
Paul, with a trembling voice; “you are in my 
apartments, where you will receive all the 
respect you so well merit. Just now while on 
the point of entering this house, I found you in 
a swoon in the street, and as every other place 
was closed, I thought it would be better to brings 
you here than to go to others for aid, which they 
would probably have refused - ” 

“Oh! Ah, yes—yes! Now I remember,”' 
interrupted the unknown, at the same time 
passing her hand over her forehead. “ Yes, I 
remember—a coach upset me and I felt a pain 
so powerful, so—sharp—that I immediately lost 
all my senses—” 

Saying this, the young girl made a slight 
movement, and immediately uttered a plaintive 
cry. 

“Ah, what is the matter, Mademoiselle,” 
asked Paul, with anxiety. 

“ It is here, Monsieur,” replied the unknown, 
pointing to her right leg. “ Ah, what terrible 
suffering! My leg is broken! Gracious heavens! 
What will become of me! What shall I do ?” 

“ Console yourself, Mademoiselle, your mis¬ 
fortune is not so great as you think it is. It ia 
now late, take some repose, and to-morrow you 
shall tell me the residence of your parents, to 
whom I will conduct you.” 

“ My parents ?” replied the girl, weeping, “ 1 
have none left—I am alone in the world*” 

“ Grand Dieu / You an orphan!—but your 
have a home ?—un etat ?—what do you do 
then ?” 

“What do I do?” replied the young girl, 
hesitating, “ what do I do ?—but after all you are 
too good a young man that I should make a 
secret of my life. My name is Clara, and as to 
my profession, read that and you will know me 
entirely.” She drew a paper from her pocket, 
and gave it to the young man. 

Paul threw his eyes on the paper and remained 
stupified. 

For several moments there was a melancholy 
silence, during which nothing was beard but the 
sighs of Paul and the sobs of Clara. 

“ Do you regret the pity with which I have 
inspired you ?” said the young girl, at last, and 
in a tone at once sad and disdainful. 

“ Oh, no!” replied Paul, approaching her. 
“ No! whatever your profession may be, you 


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132 


THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 


are a woman, and that title alone is sufficient to 
claim my pity. And then,” continued he, feeling 
his favorite dream agitating him, “ I do not share 
an this point the prejudices of other men—if you 
can listen to me you will perhaps have quite a 
different opinion of me.” 

Paul recollected or fell back upon himself for 
a moment, then breaking silence, he opened his 
heart to the young girl. He told of the dream 
that unceasingly haunted him; he spoke to her 
of the happiness, the glory, he should experience 
in making of the vile and despised girl a virtuous 
and respected woman; then he spoke of the 
passion he would have for her, and the joy that 
he should experience if, as a reward for his good 
attempts, she would return his passion with equal 
depth, and as sincerely as he felt he should. 

During this recital, of which we have given but 
a faint idea, Paul saw not the efforts made by 
Clara to cpnceal her laughter. When he stopped 
he turned towards her his eyes which, during his 
passionate declaration, had been fixed on the 
ground. 

“ It is a noble project,” she replied, “ and if 
your choice has fallen upon me, my whole life 
will not suffice to show you my gratitude!” 

“You accept then, Mademoiselle ?” 

“Can you doubt it, Monsieur?” exclaimed 
Clara. 

“ Then I am the happiest of men, and you the 
best of women,” cried Paul with enthusiasm, 
“ but,” replied he, squeezing her hands with 
tenderness, “ you have need of repose—rest then 
and to-morrow early in the morning, I will pro¬ 
cure you a gown, of which you stand in need, as 
this is covered with mud.” 

“Adieu then, Mon Sauveur!” 

“ Adieu, my Fleur de Marie /” 

Clara answered Paul with a tender regard, 
then closing her handsome black eyes, she tried 
to sleep. For some moments she sighed like 
one in insupportable pain ; but by little and little 
her sighs ceased, and her calm and regular 
respiration induced Paul to think she slept. 

At early dawn, the moment that day-light 
appeared, he stole softly out of the room and 
hastened to purchase some effets for his tender 
Goualeuse , as he delighted to call her. Diligent 
as he was, he was absent two hours. When he 
returned, out of breath and heated, what was his 
surprize to find Clara gone. He had not yet 
recovered from his surprize, when he discovered 
upon his table a scrap of paper, upon which 
some lines were written, that were yet moist. 
He threw his eyes over them and read the 
following : 


| “My Dear Friend: 

I have reflected upon the offer made by yon to me, and It ia 
with pain that I see it will be impossible*for sm to accept it. I 
hank you Bincerely, and to prove to you my profound gratitude, 
I take from your commode all your money, of which 1 have great 
need, and your watch, which I will keep— as a souvenir of you— 
or at least until misfortune shall compel me to take it to mj 
uncle. 

I thank you for your trouble, and kiss you on l>oth hand*. 

Thy affectionate 

Clara.** 

This epistle gave a mortal blow to Paul's 
imagination; his illusions were stripped of all 
their leaves, and he remained in his room for 
several days without eating. Winter set in; 
business languished, and the workshops of Paris 
threw two-thirds of their workmen on the pav€. 
The patron to whom our hero had been recom¬ 
mended, profited by his want of attention to get 
rid of him. The poor young man, crushed by 
his misfortune, without employment, delivered 
up as it were to himself, associated with other 
unemployed workmen, for relaxation. They 
took him to the barrieres , and soon spent for 
him the little money he had left. By and by he 
imitated them in their habits of intoxication, and 
the first step oDce taken, he threw himself body 
and soul into the drunkard's ways. 

Drunkenness often renewed exhausts the 
faculties of the mind. This misfortune fell 
upon Paul; his warm imagination became 
frozen, and gone is bis extreme sensibility, 
which like the rose shut itself up from contact 
with impure air, now—for he still exists—he now 
labors merely for the gratification of the grossest 
instincts of his nature. 

Here would terminate this veritable history, if 
we had not just learned that Paul, while passing 
the Palau-de-Jvstice a few days since, recog~ 
nized Clara in custody with five or six other 
women. On again seeing her he experienced 
uo emotion; he merely remarked to some one 
with him 

“ Stop! strange! look at the third one; about 
a year ago she slipped off with my watch and 
money.” s. n. 


ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT AND LAWS. 


The same self-love, in all becomes the cause 
Of what restrains him, Government and Laws. 
For, what one likes if others like as well, 

What serves one will, when many wills rebel ? 
How shall he keep, what, sleeping or awake, 

A weaker may surprize, a stronger take T 
His safety must his liberty restrain 
All join to guard what each desires to gain. 
Forc’d into virtue thus by self-defence, 

Even Kings learn’d justice and benevolence: 
Self-love forsook the path it first pnrsn’d, 

And found the private in the public good.—Paps. 


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VALLEY OF TIIE CONNECTICUT. 


133 


Original. 

I 

VALLEY OF THE CONNECTICUT.* ij 

/ 

The American who neglects an acquaintance 
with the magnificent natural beauties of his j 
native land, to pine for foreign scenes, or to 
exhaust his youth in traversing Europe, without i 
aim or purpose, other than the pitiful vanity 
of being considered “ travelled,” exhibits a || 
puerility of mind and want of true appreciation of jj 
the sublime and beautiful, really deplorable, j 
Scattered broadcast by the lavish hand of the : 
Creator all over our beautifnl country, are to be I 
found every variety of natural beauty under 
heaven, and in the very highest form of devel- ! 
opment—from the thundering Niagara to the i 
sweet lake locked in amongst the fragrant hills, 
asleep since creation dawned over chaos—from ; 
the wild and terrific fastnesses of the AUegha- j 
nies, or the remoter Rocky Mountains, to the 
smiling and peaceful valley, crowned with the 
labors of the merry husbandman, and musical 
with the hum of bees. In climate, too, the ; 
United States embraces the invigorating atmos- j 
phere of the sparkling and frozen north—the | 
fruitful and expansive breezes of the temperate 1 
regions, and the bland velvet skies, the dreamy 
clouds and orange-blossom air, the fierce sun 
and terrific tempests, of the tropics. With all 
these advantages—and with his dearly beloved 
“ flower-flag” floating on every breeze, and the | 
sounds of free, happy, prosperous industry 1 
greeting him on every side, and extending to him 
the warm welcome of a fellow countryman’s 
hospitality—and protected in person and property 
from all annoyance, extortion or oppression, and 
with the proud consciousness every where 
swelling his bosom, “ this is ray own, my native j 
land,”—why will the mere traveller for pleasure 
leave his country behind him, and plunge into! 
all the countless and inexpressible vexations of; 
European travel ? The passports—the custom- j 
houses—the extortion every where mercilessly 
practised as a system—the wretchedness and ; 
beggary of the people—the meanness and sordid 
poverty of governments—the difference of man¬ 
ners, habits of thought, modes of life—the 
absence from all one holds dear—these, it would 
seem to us, are a potent disenchanler of the 
delights of European tour-making. 

However, our motive at present is not to dis¬ 
parage Europe or European travelling, but j 
simply to draw the attention of our readers to 

* Sae Plate II. 

16 


one of the most remarkable scenes to be found 
in the beautiful valley of the Connecticut- 
admitted on all hands to be as sweet a spot as ever 
the sun shone upon. The whole Course of that 
river, from its source in the White Mountains to 
its debouchure , is one continuous panorama of 
magnificent landscapes, relieved by the silver 
winding of the river, which glides like a sluggish 
serpent amid the heavy and luxuriant verdure. 

Mount Holyoke is a bold aryl picturesque 
bluff, bare on the face towards the water, 
situated on the east shore of the river, opposite 
the romantic and lovely village of Northampton. 
The elevation of Mount Holyoke is about eleven 
hundred feet above the level of the river, and the 
horizon embraced by the natural vision from its 
summit is about sixty miles in diameter— 
including Mount Tom, Northampton, Pascom- 
muc, and several smaller villages, on the west 
bank of the Connecticut, and on the eastern 
shore, the exquisitely lovely village of Old 
Hadley—a small hamlet at the foot of the 
mountain, called Hoccanum, and several other 
well known localities. 

Northampton, the principal feature of this 
splendid scene, so far as civilization is con¬ 
cerned, was called Nonotuc by the Indians, and 
was first purchased in 1653, by John Pyncheon, 
of six Indian chiefs and one squaw, for “ one 
hundred fathom of wampum by tale, and ten 
coats,”—and embraced a beautiful and fertile 
territory of something over ninety square miles! 
Truly, “real estate” has “riz,” since this pur¬ 
chase was accomplished l 

The history of the settlement of Northampton 
presents nothing peculiar. Fights with the 
Indians, robbery, peril, fear, captivity, and at 
length the extermination of the red man, were 
the usual course of events which transpired at 
the foot of old Mount Holyoke and across the 
blue and glassy river that wantons around its 
base, turning and returning upon its path, as if 
reluctant to leave so fair a scene—as fresh and 
undimmed in its surpassing charms as when it 
came first from beneath the hand of the Creator# 

A wit is a very unpopular denomination, as it 
carries terror along with it; and people in general 
are as much afraid of a live wit in company, as a 
woman of a gun which she thinks may go off of 
itself, and do her mischief. Their acquaintance 
is, however, worth seeking, and their company 
worth frequenting; but not exclusively of others, 
nor to such a degree as to be considered only as 
one of that particular 9et.—Chtstcrfield. 


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134 


A TALE OF THE MOORS 


Orif iail. 

A TALE OF THE MOORS. 

BY MISS H. J. WOODXAH. 

“In the year 1820, when Ismael, a native of Nilift, war 
K ing of Granada, the Infant Don Jtinn, Scnor of Vizaya, while 
hastily retreating from the Vega of Granada, fell dead from hie 
horae, and owing to tbeir speed, and the darkues* of the night, 
it was not perceived by his followers. The body was found by 
some Moorish cavaliers, who, informing the king of the fact, 
he ordered it to be brought to Granada, and placed it in the i 
nobleat ball of the Alhambra, in a splendid coffin, covered with > 
costly cloth of gold, and surrounded with numerous torches of 
wax. There be assembled all the Moorish nobles and cava¬ 
liers, and all the Christian captives, commanding them to 
offer Christian prayers for the soul of the deceased. He then 
sent the body with noble pomp and attendance to the family of 
Don Joan, who resided at Cordova.” 

’Twas night upon the hills of Spain, 

And through the darkness fled the train 
Of Don Juan, nor heeded they 
That on the turf their leader lay. 

They missed him not amid the throng 
That fled like frighted deer along. 

They saw not that be reeled and fell 
Far down in a romantic dell, 

Where the pale moonbeams never fall 
To gild the gloom, which like a pall 
Hung o’er the soldier’s grassy bed, 

And curtained well that princely head! 

His dying hand essayed in vain 
To raise the cross, that once again 
Unto his lips the holy thing 
In a long, sweet embrace might cling. 

His faithful horse refused to fly, 

And stood, lone watcher, meekly by! 

One star sent down its holy ray 
Upon the bed where Juan lay; 

And he who thought with human pride 
In his ancestrel halls to ’hide 
The coming of the shadowy king, 

Must perish here like worthless thing ! 

And from that lone, sequestered place, 

His soul was called the path to trace, 

W'hich ne’er permits its pilgrim guest 
To share again in earth’s unrest! 

Mourning within his princely halls! 

And one pale mourner wildly calls 
Her chieftain to return once more, 

That she may bless him o’er and o’er! 

Alas! she well might envy now 
The placid quiet of that brow, 

Which ne’er will feel the pressure more 
Of helmet which he proudly wore! 

See in the court-yard with the speed 
Of arrow winged, comes Julian’s steed! 

His jetty coat is dashed with foam— 

He neighs a welcome to his home, 

Then drops his arching neck, and lo! 

He stands like one opprest with wo! 

“ Without a rider! oh, my God ! 

Juan lies bleeding on the sod! 

Haste ye! if saddle, girth, or rein 
Bear one foul mark or bloody stain, 


Then mount your horses and away. 

Avenge your master’s death this day ! 

But if a captive to the Moor, 

With proffered gold and gems allure 
The craving scoffer to release 
A prince of Spain in health and peace ! 

Spare not, hut drain our coffer's wealth 
So he return in peace and health! 

Not dead! no, no, my thoughts are dim ! 
Death cannot claim one loved like him! 

And, Holy Mother ! to his soul 
Whisper the love that mocks control, 

And weeps and watches day by day— 

Whose only solace is to pray! 

I give him to thy holy care— 

Mother of Bethlehem’s infant, spare !'* 

So spake Don Juan’s lovely bride, 

Then turned, her flowing tears to hide, 

And knelt beside the altar dim, 

In speechless agony for him ! 

Scarce had Don Juan closed his eyes, 

When a dark throng in mute surprize 
Were gather’d iound with gleaming blades, 
And torches flashing through the shades! 

The noble horse around him threw 
A fiery glance, then onward flew 
Through mountain pass and forest shade— 
O’er hill-tops where the moonbeams played, 
’Till at the palace gate he stood 
Covered with foam, in restless mood! 

The swarthy band round Juan closed, 

And torches to their view disclosed 
The placid features of the chief, 

Unmarked by any show of grief, 

As stern in death the look he wore 
As when his vassals proudly bore 
His splendid banner to the field, 

Whose folds no spot of shame revealed ! 

They knelt around the sacred dead, 

And from the turf upraised his head, 

And bore him silently along— 

A hushed and strange funereal throng. 

He was a foeman, but they knew 
A warrior so renowned and true, 

And scorned the littleness to chow 
An insult to a harmless foe! 

They reached Alhambra’s lofty towers, 
Through orange groves and perfumed bowers 
And in the more than regal hall, 

With cloth of gold—a kingly pall, 

And torches on his sleep to shed 
A light that could not reach the dead! 

They left him sweetly sleeping there, 
Unmindful of the pomp and glare 
That spoke the boundless wealth of those, 
Who treated him like kingly foe I 
44 Summon the nobles of the land, 

And all the captive Christian band! 

’Tis fit that Christian prince and knight. 
Receive from those his burial rite, 


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A TALE OF THE MOORS 


135 


Who speak his language and adore 
The cross which he in triumph wore !” 

Thus spake the Moorish monarch, while 
His voice rang through the noble pile. 

Then at his bidding quickly came 
His nobles, rich in martial fame, 

And decked in vesture richly wrought 
With jewels, blood and valor bought. 

Then with a solemn step and slow, 

With hands bowed down in tearful wo, 

The Christian captives knelt around 
The prostrate prince in grief profound ! 

“ And thus to meet,” at length they said, 

“ The captive kneeling to the dead! 

Thou scion of a royal line, 

How can thy country well resign 
The hopes that mingled with thy fate, 

Now sadly dark and desolate! 

And thy sweet bride,—how waits she now 
To part the damp locks from thy brow, 

And tell thee in love’s holy strain, 

How much of anguish must remain 
With those who blend not with the fight, 
But watch and pray by day and night! 

Blest virgin! in her widowed lot 
Don Juan’s bride is not forgot! 

Thou art the hapless mourner’s friend, 

We pray thee on her path attend !” 

And now they chant the service o’er, 

And consecrated water pour, 

And waft the curling incense round, 

While all is hushed in peace profound! 

Then a fitful wail arose, 

And anon the lofty arches rung 
With the hymn the captive mourners sung. 
As the sacred rite they close! 

DIRGE. 

A requiem for the dead ! 

Solemn and slow for a spirit fled— 

For a chieftain on his bier! 

His banner waves o’er his dreamless rest; 
His shield still covers his pulseless breast! 
What doth the sleeper here t 

There is mourning now for him, 

And tearful eyes are with mourning dim! 

Shall he return no more ? 

Oh! yield him back to his father-land, 

To sleep with a brave and princely band 
Who ruled in days of yore! 

For him there is perfect peace ! 

From pain and care he hath found release ! 

But the captive still must pray, 

And pine, and weep in his wan despair, 
And die unshrived by the voice of prayer, 
And sleep with unhallowed clay ! 


We mourn not for the dead! 

But solemn and slow shall the prayer be said 
For the living and bereft! 

Bear him away! He will wake no more 
To the trumpet-note, for his toils are o’er; 
But the breaking hearts are left! 

The service ended, forth they go 
To chains and servitude and wo! 

But one pure ray of tranquil light 
Shot o’er their spirits’ frowning night— 

Don Juan would at length repose 
In hallowed ground untrod by foes! 

And soon a long and courtly train 
Went winding slowly o’er the plain. 

Nor halted, ’till the palace-gate. 

Where the proud charger stood so late, 

Opens anew that Juan’s bier 
Might leave its precious burden here! 

And now the Moorish nobles stood 
Round the pale corse in pensive mood: 

Then came a piercing shriek, and sprung 
The widowed bride those forms among. 

“ Blessings upon ye for my dead! 

Soft be the turf where’er ye tread! 

Peaceful your death, and homes of love 
Be ready for your souls above!” 

Then like a broken flower she fell.— 

Such depths of anguish, who can tell! 

Then bounding to their saddles, flow 
The dark-browed throng with tidings true, 
Bock to Granada's land of kings 
Whose harps knew no discordant strings; 
Whose wealth and valor shall no more 
Bid nations tremble as of yore ! 

Boston , Mass. 


O r i f i n a 1. 

SONNET. —MANHOOD. 


BT MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 


The steadfast sweep of the mighty storm 
As it tosses high the waves, 

The breaker’s huge and foam-capt form 
As the rock’s cold side it braves; 

The endurance stern of Sorrow’s heir 
As his earlier hopes are flown, 

The eagle’s scream in his mountain lair 
As the feast of blood is shown; 

The tramp of men on the battle-field, 
Where the fruits of strife are death, 
The cry by anguished pilgrims pealed 
Where the monsoon pours its breath: 
These, if aright the truth we scan, 

Make up the hurried life of Man ! 
Philadelphia, 1843. 


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136 


THE BRIDAL ROBB. 


Original. : 

THE BRIDAL ROBE. 

BT HRS. EMMA C. EMBURT. 

“ Can this be denlh ? there’s bloom upon her cheek 

******* 

It is the same:—oh, God ! that I should dread ! 

To look upon her beauty!”— Manfred, \ 

Never had a more brilliant f6te been witness¬ 
ed, even in festival-loving Mexico, than that which 
was held in honor of the nuptials of Count Alva¬ 
rez da Carrero with the young and lovely Celes- 
tina d’Atayde. The bridegroom was young, rich, 
well-born and eminently handsome. The bride 
was one of the loveliest of her sex, and the attri¬ 
butes of rank and fortune were to her but as the 
golden setting of a picture, which, in itself, would 
have been priceless. Educated in the seclusion 
af a convent, she had known nothing of the world, 
until, at the age of eighteen, she emerged from 
her retirement, an affianced bride. An arrange¬ 
ment had been made, in which, as usual, the 
inclinations of the parties most interested had 
been the last thing considered, and Count Alva¬ 
rez, having satisfied himself, by ocular demon¬ 
stration, of the beauty of his destined bride, 
offered no opposition to the plan. But Love is 
a plant of rapid growth in fervid climes. It 
needed but a few interviews between the be¬ 
trothed, to convert policy into passion, and the 
count was soon as devoted a lover as ever knelt 
at woman’s shrine. 

The young Celestina was full of romance; 
her heart was abounding in unappropriated senti¬ 
ment, and many a beautiful dream had she woven 
in her convent home, of mutual love and reci¬ 
procal affection. To her ardent fancy, her fair¬ 
est vision seemed realized in the person of her 
affianced husband. The flash of his wild, bright 
eyes was as sunshine, and the toucs of his rich 
voice as music to her soul. She was in a trance 
of happiness, and earth was all fairy-land to one 
whose hopes were so near their perfect fulfil¬ 
ment. 

The charge of providing all things suitable 
to the rank of the parties was gladly assumed 
by their haughty relatives, and nothing that 
wealth could afford of pomp and magnificence, 
was wanting. The mother of Celestina had 
long been noted for the excessive vanity which 
led her ever to outshine her compeers in 
dre99 and equipage, and now, the energies 
of a spirit, which ever wasted itself upon 
small things, were exerted to excel all others 
in the splendor of her preparations. But the 
bridal robe—that object of especial interest on 


such occasions to all who feel a pride in the 
bride’s appearance,—was the chief object of the 
mother’s care. She resolved to devise something 
which had not before been seen in Mexico, and 
for this purpose the utmost secresy was preserved 
respecting it. The gossips were all at fault; in 
place of finding the bride’s dress and ornaments 
exhibited, as usual, to all admiring friends during 
the whole week previous to the nuptials, no 
one was admitted into the apartment where was 
secured the gorgeous paraphernalia. It was said 
that the richest looms in Europe had been taxed 
to furnish the fabric of this superb dress; but 
all was conjecture,—no one really knew any 
thing about the matter, and it may be conceived 
how much interest was therefore awakened in 
a community of frivolous and unoccupied women. 

Never had a more brilliant assemblage of rank 
and beauty been drawn together in Mexico, than 
were now met to do honor to the noble pair. 
There is perhaps no city in the world where 
magnificence in dress is carried to such an 
extent as in that ancient capital of a rich king¬ 
dom, and there was no lack of display on the 
present occasion. Diamonds, (the only precious 
stone which a Mexican lady condescends to 
wear,) flashed a second sunshine over the scene, 
aud the dark eyes of the stately dames were 
I almost outshone by the brightness of the gems 
j which sparkled in their raven tresses. But fore- 
( most in beauty appeared the youthful bride. 

1 Her classical features, the exquisite beauty of 
| her full, dark eyes, the curve of her small mouth, 
the exceeding grace of her tall and noble figure, 
were acknowledged by all who looked upon her 
loveliness. To the eyes of her own sex, how¬ 
ever, she offered an attraction far exceeding her 
personal beauty. That dress was at last exhi- 
, bited, and words were found to be quite inade¬ 
quate in the praise of its unique beauty. It was 
a robe of rich lace, so delicate in its texture, that 
it might well be called * woven air, 1 while the 
tracery which covered its transparent surface, 
was like nothing, so much as the inimitable 
! arabesques that in northern climes are wrought by 
| the night-frost upon a window-pane. The dra- 
I pery which ornamented the skirt, was looped by 
I knots of gold fillagree, so exquisitely wrought, 
and of such pure metal, that they were as pliable as 
if formed of silken ribbon, while pearls of great 
size and purity were set in the interstices of their 
network, and a single diamond formed the centre 
of each. The same rich ornaments looped the 
full, hanging sleeves, through which the white 
arms of the lovely wearer gleamed like moon- 
i light through a mist. Nothing could be ima- 


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THE 


RIDAL ROBE. 


137 


gined more surpassingly beautiful than the effect 
of this fantastic but superb attire. The ladies 
well knew that however costly might be the 
pearls and diamonds lavished upon its adorn¬ 
ments, yet the lace, so fine, so exceedingly deli¬ 
cate, and yet so richly wrought, that it seemed 
to have been the work of fairy hands, was far 
more valuable than all the gems. The men 
looked upon the loveliness of the bride until they 
could have envied the bridegroom his happiness, 
but the ladies felt their hearts burn with desire 
to possess so exquisite a dress, and they forgot 
even to be jealous of the face which excelled all 
others. For a whole week after the nuptials, 
nothing was talked of among the Mexican ladies 
but this magnificent dress, and though it was not 
again seen at any of the gay festas which fol¬ 
lowed, yet its rare beauty and costliness were not 
soon forgotten. 

A year passed away, and a second grand fete 
gathered a crowd of gay friends in the hospitable 
mansion of Count Alvarez. An heir to the 
honors of his noble house had been born, and 
the christening was expected to exceed in splen¬ 
dor the nuptials which were yet so vividly re¬ 
membered. Nor was public expectation disap¬ 
pointed, for the banquet and the ball, the concert 
and the fireworks were alike inimitable. Fore¬ 
most still in beauty appeared the lovely countess, 
and now, for the second time , she wore her bridal j 
robe. Not a fold of its rich texture seemed to ; 
have been displaced, and the eyes of the obser¬ 
vers followed with delight the beautiful woman 
as she glided gracefully among her guests, while 
her delicate drapery enveloped her like a half¬ 
veiling atmosphere of light. 

Yet there were some present who fancied that 
her beauty had lost something of its brilliancy 
during the interval which had elapsed since first 
she wore that bridal robe. There were some 
who noted that the healthful tint of quiet happi¬ 
ness which once painted her smooth cheek, had 
given place to a bright burning spot that told of 
feverish excitement rather than content. Her 
eye was keener and more restless in its glances, 
and there was an unquiet drooping of her heavy 
lids, as if tears lurked beneath their shadow. 
Yet only those who possessed the power of deep 
discernment, the faculty of reading the soul, 
could have seen aught but joy in the beaming 
face of the youthful countess. 

Alas! how little to be desired is the power 
which enables one to look beneath the smiling 
surface of life ! how fatal is the gift which brings 
before the mental vision those dark and creeping 
things which lie beneath the flowers and verdure 
of our daily path ! Sorrowful is the lot of him 


whose eyes have been touched with the fairy 
! wand of disenchantment, and who finds the trail 
of the serpent even in Paradise. Sorrowful 
j indeed the lot of him, who may not rest his gaze 
| upon the calm surface of a summer sea, but is 
compelled by a mysterious power, which he can¬ 
not resist, to look down into the deep, dark 
depths of sin and sorrow. By suffering alone is 
| won this fearful faculty, and in suffering, only, is 
| its power perfected. A weary gift is that second- 
sight which can foresee the coming sorrow, but 
far more fatal is the gift of inner vision which 
| can perceive the melancholy of the smiling pre¬ 
sent. 

Such a seer might have read in the bright and 
beautiful face of the countess a tale, perhaps but 
! too common, of disappointed hopes. Like all 
' earnest and imaginative persons, she had imaged 
I a vision of such perfect happiness as never can 
exist on earth. She had fancied that unselfish 
devotion, unchanging constancy and undeviating 
| tenderness were as inherent in the fervent passion 
i of man’s nature as they are in the deep affection 
of woman’s heart. Love was, with her, religion, 
—the religion of a pure, unsullied breast. She 
had given up her whole soul to this engrossing 
faith, and she had met a woman’s reward. 

The count was high-minded and honorable, 
passionate in his feelings, and impetuous in his 
will. His impulses had ever been the guides of 
his conduct, and he had never looked into his 
own nature to learn its mysteries of good or evil. 
Volatile and fickle in all his feelings, unstable 
in principle, and possessing an insatiable love for 
pleasure, he was little likely to realize a woman’s 
dream of devoted love. He had surrounded his 
j wife with every luxury, he had worshipped her 
with that delicious homage which so intoxicates 
j and enervates the heart ofthe idol at whose feetsuch 
| incense is poured out,—he had imbued her with 
I the knowledge of what passionate love might be 
I even in this cold world,—and then the purple 
! glow of passion grew dim in the sunshine of 
enjoyment. He became weary of the monotony 
I of happiness, and the restless excitement of a 
life of daily-changing amusements drew him 
abroad into the world. The birth of his son 
awakened in him the pride and pleasure of pater¬ 
nity, and, for a time, he seemed to return to the 
heart-joys of domestic life. But the countess 
had learned a lesson of distrust, and this tran¬ 
sient gleam of happiness could not revive the 
freshness and bloom of her withering hopes. 
Her bridal robe had once been folded over a 
bosom filled with hope and joy,—now it veiled 
the dull throbbings of a heart which lay in the 
" iron grasp of disappointment. 







138 


THE BRIDAL ROBE. 


Another year passed on, and again were friends 
assembled in the richly-garnished apartments of 
Count Alvarez. It was the anniversary of his 
bridal day. Yet the guests looked not like those 
who had met to celebrate a festival. Alas! sad 
indeed was the occasion which had again sum¬ 
moned the assembled throng. In a room hung 
with black, and decorated with all the insignia of 
mourning, stood a bier, on which, extended in 
utter lifelessness, lay the lovely countess. Again, 
and for the last time, she wore her bridal robe. 
It was the custom of the land to bury the dead 
in their richest attire, and the mother’s grief had 
found something of solace in thus decking the 
form of her child in its priceless array. That 
magnificent dress which had excited the admi¬ 
ration and the envy of so many, was now folded 
over the rigid form, which even in death had not 
lost its graceful outline. Those snowy pearls 
whose hue was yet unsullied by the breath of 
time,—that fine gold, yet undimmed as when it 
came from the hands of the cunning workman,— 
those diamonds glistening like tears amid the 
drapery which swept stirlessly down from the 
fixed and stony figure,—all were now the adorn¬ 
ments of the bride of death,—the vain decora¬ 
tions of one who must now lie down with the 
worm. 

How beautiful she was as she lay upon that 
funeral couch! with her thick, black tresses 
bound, as on her marriage day, with a tiara of 
diamonds,—her delicate hands, sparkling with 
gems, laid meekly on her breast; her rich robe 
with its glittering ornaments; and her small feet, 
clad in jewelled slippers, crossed with a sort of 
childish grace, she seemed like some fair crea¬ 
ture, who, weary with the merry dance, had lain 
down to slumber in the very moment of enjoy¬ 
ment. Beautiful was the curve of those long, 
black lashes, shadowing the white cheek,—beau¬ 
tiful the smile which parted those sweet lips,— 
beautiful the repose of that young, fair brow. 
Yet this was death ! Those eyes would never 
again lift up with tenderness,—that cheek would 
no more kindle with the blush of womanly feel¬ 
ing. She was dead !—the victim of unregulated 
sensibility,—the martyr to an unrewarded faith. 

The mother sat beside the bier, and ever and 
anon, her hand would adjust the folds of that 
gorgeous death-robe, or smooth caressingly the 
rich braids of raven hair, which she had so often 
adorned for the festival or the banquet. No 
tears fell from eyes whose fountain time had 
sealed, but in cold, calm, unutterable agony of 
soul, she watched beside her dead child; her 
habitudes of thought and action unconsciously 


showing themselves in the occasional arrange¬ 
ment of her funeral array. 

The countess was borne to her grave amid the 
tears of all who loved her, while the grief of the 
bereaved husband was in full proportion to his 
consciousness of previous neglect; and he mourn¬ 
ed over that jvhich was lost to him for ever, with 
the passionate grief of a child who weeps for the 
toy his own hand has destroyed. Within the 
dim aisles of the cathedral, the bier reposed 
before the great altar. The mass was sung,— 
the services of the holy church performed, and a 
solemn requiem for the soul of the departed 
echoed sweetly and mournfully beneath the lofty 
arches of the sacred dome. Then came the 
moment of farewell. All pressed forward to look 
their last upon the beautiful dead; one tearful 
glance was all that could now be allowed, and, as 
the shades of evening fell over the mournful 
scene, the portals of the vaulted tomb closed 
upon the fairest form that ever death embraced. 


Many months had elapsed, and the untimely 
fate of the Countess Alvarez had been forgotten 
in a thousand new excitements. Even those 
who loved her best seemed to have found solace 
in their wonted habits of life, for her mother was 
again seen in the gay festas and at the gorgeous 
spectacle, while the count had returned to the 
excitements of the wine-cup and the gambling 
table. He had wedded again, and his new bride 
bad a stateliness of demeanor, and a sternness 
of aspect which little resembled the gentle love¬ 
liness of her predecessor. No one doubted that 
the count had been tempted by his lady’s wealth, 
which his diminished coffers sadly needed, and 
few, therefore, were surprized that the cloud 
which had gathered over his brow when he gave 
his fairer bride into the keeping of death, should 
deepen and darken, instead ol being dissipated 
by the smiles of his newly chosen partner. The 
present countess possessed a turbulent temper, 
and an indomitable will. There was nothing of 
the gentle, loving woman, in her hard, cold 
nature, and as time advanced, the count found 
deeper reason to remember with tenderness the 
wasted affection of her who was gone for ever. 
Wayward and fickle as Alvarez had ever been, 
there were yet glimpses of better things in his 
nature, which might have been developed, had 
he early fallen under nobler influences. His 
love for the dead seemed now to hallow the 
inmost recesses of his heart, and profligate and 
reckless as he seemed, he now sought the cup 
of pleasure rather to drown painful thoughts, 
than from actual enjoyment of its draught. 


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THE BRIDAL ROBE. 


139 


Moods of melancholy came upon him, when 
despondency was like an incubus upon his soul. 
He grew morbid and irritable, his physical 
strength seemed to fail, and his vigor of mind 
decayed. His noble beauty of visage was mar¬ 
red by lines of painful thought, and there were 
not wanting persons who remembered that the 
blood of his family bore a fearful taint. His 
grandfather had died a raving maniac, and his 
father had shown a degree of eccentricity, which, 
but for his early death, might have developed in 
utter abberration of mind. 

It was under the influence of one of his fits of 
gloom, that the count suffered himself to be per¬ 
suaded to accompauy a large party to the thea¬ 
tre. A new opera troupe had just arrived from 
Havana, and the prima donna was said to be not 
only beautiful, but also gifted with a voice of the 
most exquisite melody. No one had yet heard 
her, for Mademoiselle Pauline had refused to 
admit any one to the rehearsals which preceded 
her appearance. She was a sort of feminine 
Napoleon in her limited sphere, and relied upon 
the first grand effective movement to win success. 
She wished to carry her audience by sudden sur¬ 
prize, and therefore she resolutely concealed 
herself from all eyes and ears, until she should 
appear amid the gorgeous accessories of scenic 
splendor. 

The theatre was crowded,—the walls seemed 
literally lined with expectant faces, and all eyes 
were bent with eager gaze upon the dark curtain 
which shrouded the beautiful actress from view. 
The opera was a favorite one, and at the conclu¬ 
sion of the brilliant overture, the bravas of the 
delighted audience resounded on all sides. Sud¬ 
denly the music changed, and all became still as 
death. A tender and beautiful melody ushered 
in the heroine of the night, and as the curtain 
slowly rose, there stood revealed by the soft light 
which illumined the stage, the Living semblance 
of the buried Countess Alvarez ! The similitude 
was perfect,—the black hair wreathed with dia¬ 
monds,—the white arms half hidden in their 
veiling drapery,—the fine form decked in that 
peculiar and inimitable robe, with its many gems 
sparkling in the rich and flowing folds,—all was 
the same ;—it was the countess as she had 
appeared on her bridal eve,—it was the countess 
as she looked upon her funeral bier! 

A murmur of horror ran through the gay 
assembly, but high over all the sounds rang out 
the cry of mortal agony and terror, as Count 
Alvarez, fell, in the fierce struggles of a strong 
convulsion. The theatre was instantly a scene 
co nfusion. Some gathered round the unhappy 


Count, whose livid lips were wreathed with foam 
and blood, while others sprang upon the stage 
and eagerly surrounded the terrified actress, and 
others again shrunk in superstitious awe from 
her whom they believed to be risen from her 
sealed grave. 

The mystery was soon solved in the presence 
of the ministers of justice, before whom the 
unconscious Pauline was carried, to give an 
explanation of this strange apparition. The 
poor girl, ignorant of the nature of her error, 
was sadly alarmed, but the simplicity with which 
she related her story soon exonerated her from 
all censure; while a nearer observation of her 
faded and tarnished countenance destroyed much 
of that frightful similitude which her attire and 
the illusion of distance had occasioned. But her 
dress was actually the robe in which the Countess 
had thrice been seen. The sacristan of the 
church into whose care the keys of the burial 
vaults were always entrusted, had found avarice 
too strong for principle. The custom of burying 
the dead in all their richest jewels, had long 
before tempted him to commit the sacrilege of 
robbing their tombs, and scarcely had the friends 
of the fair young Countess left her to the repose 
of the grave, when the wretch had despoiled her 
lifeless body of its costly vestment. By the aid 
of a confederate, the dress with all its decorations 
had been sent to Havana, where it was supposed 
it might safely be exposed for sale, and falling in 
the way of the admired actress, who was as 
extravagant as she was vain, she had purchased 
it at a price far below its real value, and certainly 
without being made acquainted with its previous 
destination. 

But Count Alvarez had received a shock from 
which he never recovered. A severe and pro¬ 
longed attack of brain-fever reduced him to a 
degree of imbecility of mind almost approaching 
to idiocy. He fancied the apparition of his 
buried wife was ever beside him, and he would 
talk with the airy phantom as if it had been the 
real living and breathing Celestina, who had long 
since mouldered in the grave. For five years he 
lived, a quiet, harmless monomaniac, as feeble in 
body as in mind, but nothing could ever again 
restore bis faculties to their wonted vigor, or 
dissipate the delusion which made him happy in 
the fanciful possession of her whom he had 
lost. 


(JVote .—The incident upon which the foregoingtale is foanded 
may be seen in Madame de la Barca’s Life in Mexico. The 
main circumstance is there stated upon the authority of a dis¬ 
tinguished Mexican lady, and it is further asserted that in con¬ 
sequence of this strange discovery the dead are no longer 
entombed with all their jewels, although custom still requires 
that they shall be arrayed in their gayest apparel.) 


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140 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


Original. 

COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS.—NO. VI. 

CAPTAIN MARRTATT, R. N. 

- — 

“ Quid rectum, sit apparet. 

Quid ezpediut, obscuruin.” 

Lib. Tran : 

What is plaiu to be seen 

Has no curtain between. 

(A very judicious remark.) 

What is very obscure, 

(A fact equally sure) 

Remains, as it were, in the dark. 

THE SAILOR’S REVENGE. 

“Fill up, gentlemen, fill up ! Pass the wine, 
Barker! Now then, all charged ?” 

“ All!” 

“ Here’s success to the jolly old Incognita,—a 
better craft, manned by a better crew never 
floated in salt water.” 

“ Hurrah!” 

“ Steady, my boys, take the fire from me. 
Now then, hip !—hip !—hip!—hoo-rah !—hooo- 
raah! Whooo-rraah!” 

“Hallo, Sims! you’ve got the candlestick in 
your mouth.” 

“That be damned. Well, so I have, by Ju¬ 
piter. Never mind, it only shows that I’m 
tearing drunkish—that’s all.” 

“ Whose call is it—who sang last ?” 

“ Every body.” 

“ Who’s to sing next ?” 

“Any body.” 

“ Damn it, there’s no fun in thi9—pass the 
wine—who’ll volunteer?” 

r *• ’Twns in the good ship Rover, 

Altogether. < Loud roared the dreadful thunder— 

( Did you ne’er hearof a jolly youug waterman?” 

“Phew! the deuce take it—don’t all sing at 
once.” 

“ Gen-ge-gentl’m’n ch-cha-cbarge your gl-gl- 
asses, I’m go-go-n'to— 'pose toast ■ ” 

“ Quick! Whoorah !—silence; if you are 
gentlemen, behave as such .” 

“ Who said I lied ? Da-amn-go to-” 

The above may perhaps give you a slight 
notion of the interesting and highly intellectual 
nature of the conversation which took place in 
the principal chamber of the Blue Anchor 
Public House at Deal, about one week after the 
officers and men of the Queen’s Frigate Incog¬ 
nita had received her majesty’s permission to 
waste sundry of her sterling coin in drunkenness 
and debauchery. But as the small drinkers 
dropped off one after the other, either asleep or 
under the table, the field was soon left to that 
select few who either at hunting or drinking hold 
on after the crowd has tailed off. 


“ Well, Hogg,” said one of the party to a fat 
bacon-faced individual, who richly deserved his 
savory patronymic, “have you found out any 
thing more about that devilish fine girl you were 
looking after yesterday ?” 

“Let me alone for that,” said our porcine 
friend, with a villanous attempt at a knowing 
expression ; for like all those hall-door-knocker- 
headed fellows, whom no woman on earth would 
look at except to contrast his infernal ugliness 
with some nice young man of their acquaintance, 
he labored hard to gain a character for gallantry, 
and great success with the liberal sex. “ I’ve 
seen her,” he continued, “and what do you 
think? By Jove, it’s a good joke. She’s going 
to be married in a week or two. But I can’t see 
her sacrificed—damn me—I’ll take pity on her, 
and redeem her from the clutches of the clod, 
whoever he be.” 

“ Why, you won’t interfere between man and 
wife, for it’s all the same.” 

“ If I don’t, my name’s not Hogg,” he said, 
with a horrid leer, the brute both by name and 
nature. 

“But what do you intend to do?” inquired 
Sims. 

“ Do! have her myself. If I die for it . damme ,” 
roared the licentious man. I shall no more 
degrade the brute by a comparison. 

“ But come, the wine’s out: let’s have a 
couple more bottles. Hollo! there, house— 

4 landlord,’ more wine, and another box of 
segars. Come, Trever, give us the ‘ Admiral.’ 
Confound it, he’s asleep—fast. The service is 
going to the devil. Three men left out of thir¬ 
teen, and only thirty bottles of wine, and a sprinkle 
of brandy drank. Shameful—damnable. Well, 
let them lie, but first we’ll empty the water 
bottles over them—it’s refreshing. Now then, 
hurrah! Yoicks! who cares a damn!—we’ll 
make a night and a to-morrow morning of it.” 

Out they sally, and carried their intention, by 
rousing the whole town with diabolical noises, 
which they called serenading—pulling out sundry 
bells, and bursting off several knockers—insulting 
an old apple-woman—getting exceedingly well 
thrashed by some stout market-boys, and finally 
passing the reflective matutinal hours on the 
cold floor of the Deal watch-house. A primitive 
establishment, which could not boast a deal of 
refinement by all accounts,—not like the Mar¬ 
quises favorite Station House in London, which, 
he sent an order to his upholsterer Gillon, to fit 
up, for hi9 own private incarceration. And now, 
having given, through one, a tolerable idea of the 


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COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


141 


termination of all such gentlemanly recreations, 
we’ll leave them to their 

“ Lodging upon the cold ground, H 

merely hinting that soda water was not obtainable 
at any price. 

And now, dear reader, let me lead you by the 
eyes, into a small, though neat and comfortable 
apartment, in the outskirts of the town, where, 
seated at work, you may perceive one of the 
sweetest specimens of womankind that ever rose 
before the poet’s or the painter's fancy, glowing 
with the rosy freshness of full health, radiant as 
a star, and all unconscious of her extreme loveli¬ 
ness. Happy is she too, and contented, for hark ! 
as she plies her constant needle, she sings merrily 
a little village ditty—a touching ballad, respecting 
one 

•* Sallj Smith, and her sweetheart, young Tbomar, the true.** 

But in the midst of her song, her breath stops 
with a bound from her heart; her eye glistens, 
faithfhl memory tells that her lover’s footstep is 
on the threshold, and in an instant more they 
were together. 

Primitive, sensible, but true to the very heart’s 
centre, were the loves of Mary Wearing and Harry 
White, the former the belle of Deal, and the 
latter the expertest mechanic, and the finest 
young fellow for thirty miles around. You can 
imagine how far preliminary matters have pro¬ 
gressed by listening to their conversation. 

‘‘Well, Mary, my sweet one,” said Harry, 
seating himself beside her, with one arm round 
her yielding waist, and her not unwilling hand 
clasped in his. “The old folks are not against 
us, and with your consent, and God’s blessing, 
next Sunday week will see me the happiest 
fellow in merry England.” 

Mary blushed, nor could she return a more 
eloquent answer. ’Twas not shame’s coloring, 
but the rosy veil that curtains purest innocence. 

“We shall be happy, my own one, shall we 
not ?” tenderly inquired Harry. 

“ Heaven send it, Harry,” replied Mary, “ but 
happiness is not within our gift, nor can we 
promise it to ourselves. We must endeavor to 
deserve it, and look upward in hope of getting 
the reward.” 

“ You are all goodness, Mary,” replied her 
lover, “ and if you are not happy on earth 

“Heaven’s joy will be most ample recom¬ 
pense,” seriously interrupted Mary. 

“ At all events,” said Harry, with ardor, “ you 
are mine—no obstacle prevents that—nor can 
any earthly power part us.” 

17 


Poor short seeing mortal—unthinking brag- 
gadocia! At that very instant, the ruffians, 
composing a press-gang, rushed into the room 
—claimed Harry as a deserter from the 
Incognita, and notwithstanding Mary’s heart¬ 
rending screams, and although he fought and 
struggled with the desperation of a maniac, 
carried him off wounded and insensible. 

When he recovered his senses, he found 
himself in the cock-pit of the Incognita, and a 
surgeon beside him dressing his wounds. He 
relapsed into delirium, in which state he 
remained many weeks. And when at length he 
was able to walk, the vessel was far at sea, and 
Harry was a sailor. 

As all the officers, more especially Hogg, were 
most kind and attentive to him, assuring him that 
the whole affair originated in mistake, and that 
after a short voyage he should return with plenty 
of money to his old sweetheart, Harry became 
comparatively contented; learnt his duty quickly, 
and executed it in seamanly manner; and before 
three months had passed, there was not a better 
hand on board than he—esteemed by his officers 
! and idolized by his shipmates. 

The cruize over, after having overhauled and 
taken a slave ship, the compensation for which 
gave each sailor a large sum, the good ship 
spread her wings upon the favoring breeze, and 
“homeward bound,” dashed proudly through 
the foam-crested wave. One heart in that noble 
craft beat high and hopefully, as the distance 
between it and its soul-star lessened day by day, 
and hour by hour. But there was another in the 
same ship, that shrunk back appalled even from 
its own thought, lasrhed by conscience and shive¬ 
ring with anticipation of a terrible revenge. 

And now, with a hearty cheer, the crew respond 
to the cry, “Land bo !” and ere the day closed, 
the Incognita anchored within almost sight of the 
spot, dearer to Harry’s soul, ay, almost than his 
eternal hope. He soon obtained leave from the 
Captain to go ashore, and, the happiest of a 
happy boat’s company, pushed off from the 
ship. 

On gaming the kind, he gave bis shipmates the 
slip, and darting off in the direction of Mary’s 
cottage, was obliged when within view of his 
destination, to stop and regain breath, so utterly 
had he exhausted himself in the vain endeavor to 
make his body travel as quickly as his soul. 
Approaching in a strange flutter, with every 
nerve unstrung, but with a sort of joyous sun¬ 
shine pervading ail, the first check he encoun¬ 
tered was when be perceived that the little patch 
of garden which need to be Mary’s especial care. 


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142 


COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENTS. 


was a neglected heap of wild weeds and rank i 
grass. He knew not why, but that suddenly 
struck a chill to his very heart. 

Trembling with a presentiment of ill, he slowly 
raised the latch and gazed round the little room 
where he had last parted so sadly from his love, 
—all was lonely and quiet. There was her chair 
in its old place, but unoccupied; and on the 
table was an open bible. There was son^ething 
awful in the solemn stillness, and although 
nothing definite appeared to warrant the feeling, 
yet Harry’s frame shuddered, his blood crawled 
heavily, and he could hear the loud beating of 
his heart. 

Suddenly, a low wailing moan caught his ear 
from above, followed by a shrill scream. In a 
perfect delirium of fear, Harry rushed up to the 
room from whence the sounds of dread pro¬ 
ceeded : and there his eyes were blasted by the 
sight of his young heart’s love—the sole hope of 
his existence—the very light of his life, stretched 
in death. 'Twas her last sob that he heard, but 
did not see the life-light fade from those beloved 
eyes. Her poor aged mother had fallen into a 
swoon. And stunned and speechless, Harry 
gazed in a sort of abstraction upon the dreadful 
scene. 

Slowly the old woman returned to conscious¬ 
ness, and seeing Harry, she exclaimed wildly— 

44 The avenger!—the avenger! God, I thank 
thee, a mother’s prayers are heard. Welcome 
Harry White—see,” she continued, pointing her 
attenuated finger to the bed, 44 is not that a 
bold achievement—isn’t that a mighty work ?— 
They have slain her, my darling,—my pride! 
They have slain her—look where she lies. 
That, but for devilish villany, had been still 
alive in innocence and joy. Oh ! *tis a terrible 
stroke, and hard, most hard to bear. Oh! may 
the bitter curse of a white-haired, lonely mother 
fall on him and his, who trampled on my 
breathless flower. May misery and ill-luck 
hang on his footsteps, and may a bloody death 
end a joyless life only to begin an eternity of 
torture.” 

The dark words of the old woman terrified 
Harry. But when, shortly after, the mother of 
his heart’s treasure unfolded the black machi¬ 
nations by which she was destroyed, be rose to 
his feet, silent and apparently calm, save that his 
white lips were painfully compressed, and his 
dilated eye shot forth visible gleams of fire. 

Approaching the bed where the still blood- 
warm, though breathless form of her that was 
his Mary rested, he stooped and fervently 
kissed the pale lips, saying, 44 Thus I take a last 


farewell of life and life’s anticipations. All—«0 
—save owe,” and he ground his teeth with terrible 
energy. “Come, mother,” he continued, sub¬ 
duing himself into quiet, 44 tell me, who has done 
this?” 

44 A fiend, in human form; one whom you 
have lived near, and breathed the same Heaven’s 
air with,—an officer in yonder ship,—a devil from 
yon floating hell!” 

44 His name?” 

“Hogg!” 

“ Eternal God !” cried Harry, starting to his 
feet, 44 he, the vile pusillanimous dastard—the 
mean, crawling coward’s slave. He! and when 
he,—dared he to meet me day by day, and face 
to face, without fearing that his soul’s damnable 
guilt would be imprinted on his countenance ? 
Oh, God ! oh, God!” and plunging his face into 
his hands, he groaned bitterly, but still without 
a tear; large drops forced from the hot vapor of 
j his scorching brain, rolling down his brow. 

I After a few moments he again neared the 
lifeless clay, and flinging himself upon his knees, 
prayed a silent but soul-agonizing prayer. Again 
and again he kissed the cold hand that should 
never rest lovingly in his. At last, rising slowly, 

44 Mother,” said he, in a voice unnaturally low 
and calm, 44 take this,” placing in her hands the 
| savings of his voyage, 44 1 did hope—” his 
| voice faltered—he was unable to proceed, and 
without waiting a reply, be rushed from the 
place. 

The madness of despair was in his eye, as he 
walked or rather strode through the town, but 
saving that no alteration could be observed in his 
manner. He rejoined his shipmates—hailed 
| them even with a wild and hearty laugh; no 
i longer refusing as he had hitherto done, to share 
: in their libations, but to the astonishment of his 
companions swallowed glass after glass of raw 
brandy, who seeing that there was something 
wrong, with the deference which even the 
lowest pay to the sacredness of sorrow, forebore 
questioning. 

At length they started to regain the ship; none 
' plied the oar more dexterously than Harry; none 
join in the noisy mirth with more apparent glee. 

| The fire-flash in his eye and the nervous 
|; twitching at his lips alone evidencing the internal 
ji tempest. They reach the ship’s side, and with 
|| a burst of joy jump upon the gangway. Hogg, 
from the quarter-deck had watched intently 
the countenance of Hariy, as he rowed along 
side. But perceiving nothing to indicate the 
mental strife that raged within, and thereby 
I judging that his crime was undivulged and all 


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BEAUTY. — ANACREONTIC. 


143 


was well, felt for the first time relieved of an 
overwhelming load; and his heart bounded with 
something akin to happiness; yet still he kept 
his eye on him now and then, thinking that he 
could detect a meaning in his glance, but which 
changed so suddenly, that he could not tell 
whether it was real or imaginary. 

In about an hour afterwards, Hogg having 
charge of the quarter-deck, was alone, when he 
saw Harry walking slowly in his direction along 
the gangway. Every now and then he would 
•top—pick up something, a chip or a small end 
of rope and fling it overboard, whistling the 
while with apparent unconcern. The Lieu¬ 
tenant completely thrown off his guard, by the 
carelessness of Harry’s conduct, turned to retrace 
his steps, when the latter with one bound reached 
the quarter-deck within a few yards of him. 
Starting quickly round from the noise, he saw 
Harry, approaching. As this was interdicted 
ground, there was no longer a doubt as to his 
intention; and if any proof were needed, it might 
be found in the deep heaving of his chest—the 
wild glare of his eye, and the now, for the first 
time all confessed, maddening rage that swept 
over his countenance. Sudden as thought, the 
dastard Hogg, 'exclaiming “ Mutiny!” drew a 
pistol from his belt, and levelling it full against 
Harry’s breast, fired. He fell! but for an 
instant, darting up again, he sprung like a tiger 
upon his enemy, and griping him by the 
throat with preternatural strength, dragged him, 
although a powerful man, to the nettings. 
Utterly nerveless, and as it were death-stricken, 
the doomed wretch was but as an infant in the 
hands of that terribly excited man. Plunging 
his teeth. into Hogg's very neck, with one 
tremendous burst of exertion, he rolled himself 
over the nettings, and having the seducer grasped 
tightly in his arms, dropped with a heavy plunge 
into the water. 

All this did not take up a minute scarcely, in 
occurrence. In vain were the boats lowered; for 
the avenger had so twined himself around the 
limbs of his victim, that they sank instantly and 
for ever; and the troubled foam that for a 
moment marked the position of their common 
grave, was the sole and fleeting memorial of 
The Sailor's Revenge . b. 


Leisure is time for doing something useful; 
this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the 
lazy man never; so that, as poor Richard says, 
A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two 
things.— Franklin. 


Original. 

BEAUTY. 


Oh, tell me ! does beauty, bright beauty ne’er dwell 
But in song of the Poet, or Fancy’s spell ? 

Does she sleep but on canvass the painter has framed, 
And smile but from marble the sculptor has claimed ? 

Must Wiount on the wings of the wild winds afar, 

And pierce the bright veil of some silvery star, 

Or sink ’neath the depths of the dark ocean wave. 

To find ’mid its wonders her pearly gemmed cave T 

I read the soft answer, portrayed on each flower,— 
Come search there for Beauty, in Nature’s gay bower— 
Then say, do her form and her features grace nought, 
But the touch of the artist, or poet's high thought ? 

Thou may’st trace in the dew-drops that glance o’er the isle 
The light of her eye, and her magical smile; 

Thou may’st list to her song, ’mid the forest’s dark trees, 
And gaze on her tresses, that float on the breezo. 

She’s found in the arbor, where buds the green leaf, 

And blushes ’midst roses that bloom on the heath; 

She dances with joy, in the sweet gliding stream, 

And plays in the shadows of moon-light’s soft beam. 

Around us, on mountain, through dell, and o’er plain. 
She leaves her soft foot-print, and skips o’er the main; 
No star of the evening, no drop of the morn, 

But displays some sweet grace of Beauty’s fair form. 

MARIA. 


Original. 

ANACREONTIC. 


BY WILLIAM RUSSELL, JR. 


I’li. pledge to thee my heart, love, 
Now, by this ruby wine. 

And oh! ere I depart, love, 

As fondly pledge me thine 
Raise to thy coral lips, love. 

The glass I’ve filled for thee, 
Soft as the fairy lips, love, 

Drink, dearest, unto me! 

Love sparkles in the glass, love, 
And whispers in its flow, 

Then as the moments pass, love, 
Let’s feel its gentle glow ; 

Come pledge to me thy heart, love, 
Now, by this ruby wine, 

And oh! ere I depart, love, 

I’ll fondly pledge thee mine ! 

Oswego, N. T, Nov. t 1843. 


Digitized by 1^.000 Le 







144 DIVINE WISDOM.— BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT 


Original. 

DIVINE WISDOM. 

BT MBS. LYDIA B. SiaODBNIT. 


“ Temporal afflictions sometimes hide those eternal blessings 
to which they lead ;—as temporal enjoyments cover those eter¬ 
nal evils, which they too often procure.”— Pascal. 

God’s will,—God’s will, my soul ! and not thine own,— 
No, not thine own. 

Thou had’st an earnest choice,— 

To look on pleasant things, beneath the sun, 

Sweet flowers, and fruitful vines,—but most of all 
For that dear love, which bindeth heart to heart, 

In close communion. 

But thy choice was made 

In darkness, and thou know’st not what was best,— 

He knoweth—the Eternal! 

They who hoard 

Metallic heaps, say, what will this avail 

When from their death-struck hands, the gold shall fall, 

O'er selfish, thankless, or estranged hearts, 

While they, amid the tossings of disease, 

Part to return no more 7 

And they who make 
Ambition master,—and his bidding do, 

Upon the war-cloud,—trampling fiercely down 
All loves, all charities, all bonds of right, 

And bringing plagues upon the souls of mon, 

That they may 9well in greatness, is thejr gain 
A blessing,—or a boast,—when they shall tread 
That lone St. Helena, which conscience makes, 

And wrestle with the death-pang, unsustained 
By treacherous fame 7 

Even they, perchance, who reap 
The fulness of their hope, in earthly love,— 

Finding each sorrow lulled by sympathy, 

Each joy reflected from the mirror-plate 
Of a quick answering heart, repose they not 
Too fondly on their idols 7 Feel they not 
Firm property in that which is but dust,— 

And so complain, when on the winged winds 
Uplifted lightly, it doth fleet away ? 

Doth heaven’s rich bounty make the erring heart 
Shrink, from the travel of eternity 7 
It may be so;—and therefore He, who knows 
Our frame, hath gathered round our banquet-board 
The hyssop-branch, and taste of bitter herbs,— 

And where we reach’d a rose-cup, as we thought, 

Gave us a thorn to kiss. 

And He doth send 

Deep voices to us, from the spirit land, 

Swell’d by the lips which once on earth were lov’d,— 
Parent or child, or well remembered friend. 

And tenderly they teach us how to strike 
The key-note of that never-ending song, 

Which through the arch of Heaven’s high temple swells, 
** God’s will, not ours!—God’s praise, for evermore.”’ 


Original. 

THE BUNKEB-HILL MONUMENT. 


BT PR. W1LUAM BOWEN. 

“ To-day, it speaks to ns;—its future auditories will be the 
successive gets© rations of men, es they rise op before it*—and 
gather around it.”— Webster's Address , 

“ To-dat, it speaks to us,” 

Of the times that tried men’s souls, 

When hostile ships rode where yon bay 
Its deep blue waters rolls,— 

When the war-cloud dark and lowering hung,— 
Portentous o'er our land,— 

And the vassal troops of Britain came, 

With wildly flashing brand. 

“ To-day, it speaks to us !” 

Of deeds so nobly done,— 

When patriot-hearts beat high with hope, 

Ere freedom’s cause was won,— 

Of the conflict fierce, where fell 
New-England’s dauntless men,— 

Who wav’d their Country’s banner high,— 

Though warm blood dyed it, then. 

“ To-day, it speaks to us,” 

Of the spirits who would bravo 
The battle’s scathe, ere one would live 
To be the despot’s slave 
Of the high, and holy purposes, 

Of those whose seals were set 
With the falchion’s point, to freedom’s bond. 

When freedom’s foes they met. 

And will its voice be stilled, 

When the thousands of to-day 
Who have come, like pilgrim worshippers. 

From earth shall pass away? 

No! no! that silent Orator 
To future time shall tell 

Where Prescott, Brooks, and Putnam fought,— 

And gallant Warren fell. 

6hall tell of countless others, 

Brave men, who born, and nurst, 

In stormy times, on danger’s lap, 

Have dared oppression’s worst;— 

Of Vernon’s Chief,—and him who came 
Across the Atlantic flood,— 

To offer to the patriot’s God 
A sacrifice of blood. 

Long as the “ Bay State” cherishes 
One thought of sainted sires, 

Long as the day-god greets her cliffs, 

Or gilds her domes and spires,— 

Long as her granite hills remain 
Unchanged, so long shall be 
Yon monument on Bunker’s height 
A beacon for the free. 

Massillon , Ohio, 


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CALANDRINO, BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO. 


145 


U ri(in n 1. 

CALANDRINO, BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO, 
IN SEARCH OF THE HELIOTROPE.* 

[“Done” into modem English from Boccaccio , 
for the Ladies' Companion; by an Amateur.'] 

Iar ancient times there lived in the beautiful 
and romantic city of Florence, one Calandrino, a 
poor, simple, thick-headed fellow,—a house- 
painter by trade, but who was much fonder of 
embellishing the tip of his nose and his rubicund 
physiognomy in general, with that deep and de¬ 
licious purple imparted to the complexion by 
wine, than of adorning the walls that his cus¬ 
tomers would fain have placed under his brushes, 
—for Calandrino, when he chose, was a very 
skilful painter, and knew all the secrets of pro¬ 
ducing those brilliant, firm and unfading tints for 
which his countrymen have always been so cele¬ 
brated, and which are still to be seen, as bright 
and vivid as if they were but painted yesterday, 
on the disinterred walls of Pompeii. 

But Calandrino, as we have said, was a silly 
fool, and spent most of his time at the coffee¬ 
houses, or loitering about the public walks, while 
his thrifty and bustling wife had hard work to 
make both ends meet, of a Saturday night, and 
to lay aside a little something, (as all Italian 
wives feel bound to do,) for the Sunday holiday 
dinner. Calandrino had a great deal of vacant 
curiosity ; and was wonderfully fond of the mar¬ 
vellous ; and it may well be supposed that his 
pot-companions, who soon found out the trick 
of his temper, were not backward in feeding it to 
“ the top of its bent ”—in other words, in “ run¬ 
ning saws ” upon him to his heart’s content. 
Amongst the most constant of his companions, 
were Bruno and Buffalmacco, who were painters, 
like himself; and one Maso del Saggio, a merry 
young gentleman, and a most inveterate wag, 
who, hearing of Calandrino’s “ verdancy,” as we 
now term it, sought for some amusement at his 
expense, by “stuffing” him with some mon¬ 
strous story, which the poor fool, Calandrino, 
would be sure to swallow, provided it was only 
gross and ridiculous enough. 

So,—finding his victim one day loitering about 
in St. John’s church, (the churches are always 
kept open in Catholic countries, you will recol¬ 
lect,) and intently examining the carved work 
and painting of the tabernacle, which had just 
been placed over the high altar, he sought a 
companion to witness the sport, and both pro¬ 
ceeded to the church. Here, pretending not to 
see Calandrino, yet taking good care to place 

* See plats third. 


themselves within ear-shot of him Maso and 
his friend began conversing in a mysterious tone 
upon the virtues of different stones,—which 
Maso seemed to understand as well as if he had 
served his time with a lapidary. Calandrino, 
whose ears were always wide open for any thing 
smacking of the wonderful, soon joined the 
talkers, which was exactly what they wanted. 

Leading off the conversation to the subject of 
stones possessing magical virtues, upon which 
he dilated with great eloquence and unction, 
Saggio was shortly interrupted by the eager 
Calandrino, who inquired where these stones 
were to be found. 

“ For the most part,” replied Maso, “ they 
are met with in Berlinzone, near the city of 
Baschi, in a country called Benzodi, where they 
tie up the vines with large links of fat sausages, 
and you can buy a goose for a penny, and have 
the goslings thrown into the bargain,—where 
there is likewise a great mountain of grated Par- 
mesan cheese, and the people residing upon it 
do nbthing but make cheese-cakes and macca- 
roons, which they boil in capon-broth, and are 
constantly throwing down the sides of their 
mountain,—while those below amuse themselves 
by scrambling and scratching after these choice 
dainties. Here, too, is a river of the most exqui¬ 
site Malmsey wine, as pure and clear as sun¬ 
shine, and without a drop of water or any sort of 
adulteration.” 

“ Sanctissima!” broke in the eager Calan¬ 
drino, who had been listening with mouth and 
ears wide distended,—“ but this must be a fine 
country !—what do they do with the capons after 
they are boiled ?” 

“ Oh, the people eat them.” 

“ And have you ever been there ?” 

“Indeed have I,—and if I have visited that 
charming country once, I have a thousand 
times.” 

“ And how far may it be away from this ?” 

“ Many thousand miles.” 

“ Further than the Abruzzi ?” 

“ A trifle.” 

Calandrino, seeing that Maso del Saggio told 
all this, and replied to his cross questionings with 
an imperturbable gravity, swallowed the whole in 
a lump, and observed : 

“ Believe me, sir, were this journey not so 
great, I should like to go and take a scramble 
for those same maccaroons and boiled capons. 
But is it in that same countiy, also, that these 
wonderful stones of which you were telling, are 
also to be found ?” 

“Yes, there and elsewhere,” replied Maso. 


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146 CALANDRINO, BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO. 


Two there are of especial virtue : ooe of these, 
which comes from Mootisci, they make into 
millstones, which will produce flour of them¬ 
selves,—whence comes the saying, Grace comes 
from God, and mill-stones from Mootisci. These 
mill-stones are frequently set in % rings, and sent 
to the Sultan; who, in return, gives them what¬ 
ever they may demand. 

44 The other stone I spoke of, is called the 
Heliot&ope, and has the wonderful power of 
rendering him who possesses it, invisible.” 

44 And where,” said Calandrino, 44 is this won¬ 
derful stone to be found ?” 

44 It is most usually met with,” replied Maso, 
on the plains of Mugnone.” 

44 What is its color, and of what size is it ?” 
inquired the trapped Calandrino. 

44 Oh, they are of a great many different sizes, 
but all are of a blackish hue.” 

Calandrino, having got all the information he 
was likely to obtain from del Saggio, suddenly 
remembered that he had business in another part 
of the city, and made his way out of the church. 
His first thought was to find his two friends, 
Bruno and Buffalmacco; and, having poured 
into their somewhat incredulous yet wondering 
ears, the story of his wonderful discoveries, all 
three set off together in search of the precious 
stone. 

44 But what is its name ?” asked Buffalmacco. 

“A plague on my short memory,” replied 
Calandrino, 44 1 have forgotten that. But what 
have we to do with names so long as we secure 
to ourselves the virtues of this wonderful stone ? 
Let us set forth immediately.” 

44 But what sort of a stone is it ?” inquired 
Bruno. 

44 They are of all sizes,” replied Calandrino, 
but generally black; therefore I am of opinion 
that we should pick up all the black stones we 
find, until we come to the true one; so, let us 
lose no time.” 

It was finally agreed, however, that the expe¬ 
dition should be postponed until the next Sunday 
morning, which, being a holiday, their absence 
would not be so much noticed. A mutual 
promise of secrecy having been passed, Calan- 
drino took his departure, while Bruno and Buf¬ 
falmacco, laying their heads together, came to 
the very sage conclusion that Calandrino had 
either been humbugging them, or else had been 
most egregiously humbugged himself; and they 
determined to make him suffer, in either case. 

Sunday morning came, and the eager Calan¬ 
drino arose by day-break; and, calling upon his 
friends, Bruno and Buffalmacco, they left the 


city by the gate of St. Callo, and proceeded 
to the plain of Mugnone. Calandrino was in 
high glee, and skipped along before the others, 
stooping whenever he saw any thing like a black¬ 
ish stone, and putting them all in his pockets. 
His companions went moderately to work, pick¬ 
ing up here and there a stone, until he had filled 
all his pockets, his bosom, and coat-skirts, which 
he had tucked up for that purpose with his belt. 

It being now dinner time, Brnno said aloud to 
Buffalmacco. 

44 Where is Calandrino ?” 

44 1 do not know,” said the other, 44 but he was 
here between us just now.” 

44 Then I suppose he has gone home to his 
dinner, and left us here on this fool's errand.” 

44 Well, we are rightly served, for believing 
such a ridiculous story. Who but foolish fel¬ 
lows like ourselves would, ever have thought of 
finding such wonderful things here on a public 
common ?” 

Calandrino hearing this, took it for granted 
that he had discovered the true Heliotrope, and 
was suddenly become invisible. Being overjoyed 
at this discovery, he started immediately for home, 
leaving them to follow at their leisure. As he 
was going, Buffalmacco said to Brnno. 

44 Well, what must we do ? Why do we not 
go home again ?” 

44 Certainly,” replied Bruno ; 44 but I vow this 
is the last trick he shall put upon me. If he 
were here now, I would give him a token that he 
should remember;” at the same time he struck 
Calandrino a severe blow with a pebble, which 
made him stagger,—although he said nothing, 

I and continued bis way to the city, confident that 
| he had in reality the true Heliotrope in his pos- 
[ session,—paying no attention to the 44 tokens ” 

| of his waggish friends, who continued pelting 
him at every step. 

Arriving at the gates a little in advance, they 
let the guards into the secret, who humored the 
thing, and let him pass, as if they did not see 
him. The people being mostly at dinner, poor 
Calandrino went on through the streets to his 
own house, without being molested, and fully 
persuaded that he had in his pocket the true 
Heliotrope, that would, on all occasions, let him 
into the secrets of every one, without being 
himself visible. His .wife, however, who was a 
strong-minded and strong-armed woman, totally 
destitute of imagination, met him at the door, 
and began covering him with such a shower of 
abuse, for being too late for dinner, as convinced 
him that she, at least, saw him. Thinking that 
the ill-nature of his wife had broken the charm 


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THE MERRY SLEIGH. — THE ARRIVAL. 


147 


of hfs magic stone, (declaring that women made | 
every thing lose its virtue,) Calandrino flew into a 
terrible passion, and beat his better half most 
unmercifully, until she was fain to hide herself 
from his violence, and weep and scold by turns, 
’till the very rafters of the house trembled with 
apprehension. At length the two friends arrived 
and rescued the poor woman from the fury of her 
husband ; who, after a great deal of explanation 
and coaxing, became reconciled to his sad mis¬ 
fortune,—never dreaming for a moment that he 
had not at one time possessed the true Helio¬ 
trope, the virtue of which had been destroyed by 
the unlucky interference of his wife. f. 


Original. 

THE MERRY SLEIGH. 

BT LIEUT. G. W. PATTEN, U. S. A. 


I. 

Jivglk ! jingle! clear the way, 

’Tis the merry—merry sleigh! 

At it swiftly scuds along, 

Hear the burst of happy song, 

See the gleam of glances bright. 
Flashing o’er the pathway white, 
Jingle ! jingle! how it whirls, 
Crowded full of laughing girls ! 

II. 

Jingle! jingle! fast it flies, 

Sending shafts from hooded eyes, 
Roguish archers, I’ll be bound. 

Little heeding who they wound. 

See them with capricious pranks, 
Ploughing now the drifted banks; 
Jingle! jingle! ’mid their glee, 

Who among them cares for me ? 

hi. 

Jingle ! jingle! on they go, 

Capes and bonnets white with snow, 
At the faces swimming past, 

Nodding thro’ the fleecy blast; 

Not a single iobe they fold, 

To protect them from the cold; 

Jingle! jingle! 'mid the storm, 

Fun and frolic keep them warm. 

IV. 

Jingle ! jingle! down the hills— 

O’er the meadows—post the mills— 
Now ’tis slow, and now ’tis fast,— 
Winter will not always last. 

Every pleasure has its time! 

Spring will come and stop the chime! 
Jingle! jingle—clear the way, 

’Tis the merry—merry sleigh! 

Fort Ontario, N. Y., Dec., 1843. 


Orifinal. 

THE ARRIVAL. 

BT MRS. SABAH A. CUNNINGHAM. 

The incident which occasioned the following lines took place 
in the summer of 1838, and ia bare related exactly as it occurred 
—with its merciful result. 

The vessel neared the homeward bay, 

The sky was clear, the breeze was fair, 

And on the waves the moonbeams lay, 

A paler daylight 9 trembling there. 

And who was he, who ling’ring last, 

Stood on that deck with lifted hand, 

His eager glances forward cast, 

And pointed to the distant land? 

One, who in boyhood’s rip’ning hour, . 

From college scenes awhile apart. 

Comes, like the sweet spring's budding flower, 

To light with hope a mother’s heart. 

Now on his couch—fond Fancy’s wand 
Fills with lov’d forms the charmed space— 

He hears, he feels, the voice, the hand, 

The welcome and the warm embrace— 

No more! A crash! The dream has fled— 

One bound, and to the deck he springs— 

There the wild rush, the question dread— 

The tumult, that around him rings,— 

All tells of danger and dismay, 

For like stem Fate, with viewless force, 

A rock unseen, unheeded lay, 

And stay’d the vessel’s joyous course. 

She fills—she sinks! The boat! The boat! 

A moment, and delay were death— 

God grant the crowded skiff may float, 

Though trembling at the breeze’s breath! 

Brave boy ! Be cloudless still thy brow! 

Thine the quick hand, the trusting tone— 

An Eye that sleeps not, marks thee now, 

An Arm unfailing bears thee on. 

No cloud those silver’d waters shades. 

No rising gale that frail boat tires. 

No wave its quiv’ring brink invades. 

While the strong oar the seaman plies* 

But as some bird of pow’rful wing, 

Whose leafy bed the storm has riven. 

Flies the doom'd spot with upward spring. 

And sweeps unharm'd the clouds of heavew. 

So sped they on—and ere has smfl’d 
Glad morning on the busy shore, 

There rests the boat—and there, my child f 
Thank God, I clasp thee thus once more ? 


“♦This night, methink*, i* but the daylight sick, 
Only a little paler .”—Merckmt of Vinice. 


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148 


THE TWINS. 


O r i f i n a 1. 

THE TWINS. 

BT THE REV. WILLIAM 0. HOWARD. 

“Theirs was a different life, 

A different doom." 

It seems but yesterday,—although twelve years 
have rolled away since,—that I was spending a 
few weeks, during the sultriness of mid>summer, 
in the pleasant village of S—, which lies em- 
bosomed amid the towering hills of western Mas¬ 
sachusetts, and is distinguished, among the resi¬ 
dents of its immediate vicinity, by the medicinal 
properties of its cool and refreshing waters. On 
the evening that preceded my departure from 
this delightful resort, a brilliant assemblage was 
collected a t the spacious mansion of the princi¬ 
pal family in the place, composed of the elite of 
a somewhat fashionable society, and through the 
urgent solicitation of an intimate friend, I was 
induced to become one of the company, and 
mingle in the festivities of the occasion, in order 
to witness the debut of two young ladies, who, 
until that period,—they were then in their seven¬ 
teenth year,—had been strangers to promiscu¬ 
ous society. 

• • e « • 

i 

The moment had arrived for the young ladies j 
to appear, and the earnest glances and occasional | 
whisperings of the company,—for in so small a 
place, such a circumstance as the first appear¬ 
ance in public of the lovely and beautiful of the 
other sex, is always replete with interest,—plainly 
indicated that they had already arrived. I had 
hardly prepared myself to obtain a full view of 
the objects of so much excitement, when a rosy 
and roguish girl of my acquaintance touched me 
upon the elbow, and suggested a wish to favor 
me with an introduction to the bright beings, 
who were, just then, the centre of attraction. 
Placing her hand upon my arm, therefore, we 
proceeded at once to consummate the purpose 
of my companion, and very soon the extreme 
felicity was allowed me of enjoying a familiar 
chit-chat with two as sweet and charming crea¬ 
tures as I had ever beheld. 

The elder of these ladies, by exactly one hour, 
was a remarkably fine-looking and fascinating j 
woman. Her large black eyes beamed with the 
mingled rays of intellect and affection. Her | 
glossy ringlets of raven black, clustered in rich 
profusion over a neck pure as polished ivory. 
And her form was a model of symmetry and ele¬ 
gance ; while the most unstudied ease and grace¬ 
fulness of manners embellished her whole de¬ 
meanor. But sweeter and more endearing than 


jail the rest was the unsullied purity and the 
warm affection that sat cushioned upon her lips, 
and imparted their peculiar charm to her senti¬ 
ments and language. Her unaffected simplicity, 
her gentleness and frankness, rendered her the 
admiration of all. “ None knew her but to love 
her, none saw her but to praise.” 

Her sister, in personal beauty, and intellectual 
accomplishments, so nearly resembled her, that 
it was impossible for one, who met them rarely f 
to distinguish them apart. The same vivacity, 
the same sallies of keen wit and sparkling humor, 
the same brilliant colloquial powers, the same 
softness and melody of voice and chasteness of 
language characterized them both. And yet 
Sarah, the younger, in her disposition and feel¬ 
ings, was entirely different from Mary. Wild, 
impetuous, and heedless of constraint, with a 
bosom always rent with conflicting emotions, and 
more like “ a cage of unclean birds,” than a 
home of purity and love, she was neither happy 
herself, nor consulted the happiness of others. 

I And yet the two, although the very antipodes of 
each other, were bound together by the strongest 
cords of reciprocal sympathy and affection. 
Springing, like twin rose-buds, from the same 
parent stem, nourished on the same maternal 
bosom, their very dissimilarity appeared to beget 
a more ardent attachment. They were rarely 
asunder, and their main delight was seemingly 
derived from each other’s society; establishing 
the correctness of the maxim that “opposites 
constitute the most pleasing agreement.” 

Three years subsequent to the interview to 
which I have briefly alluded, Mary was united in 
marriage with a young and intelligent clergyman. 
Naturally of a serious turn, she had early become 
devotedly pious, and was peculiarly fitted for the 
important and interesting relation of the wife of 
an efficient and useful minister of the gospel* 
Their mutual influence was exceedingly benefi¬ 
cial. Their deeds of charity and mercy were 
known and appreciated. And now, surrounded 
by a smiling group of healthy and affectionate 
children, and happy in each other’s society, they 
are admirably and pleasantly located among a 
generous and confiding community. 


The history of Sarah,—the rude and reckless 
child of passion,—is a sad one. Animated by no 
respect for the feelings or the interests ef others; 
with no fixed principles to regulate her conduct, 
or direct her footsteps in the paths of peace; she 
became, in an evil hour, the victim of the per¬ 
fidious arts of an infamous miscreant, in the garb 
of a gentleman, and after a chequered career of 


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L e"b son of the sea. — a lover s vow. 


149 


vice anJ sufferm*, she languished and expired 
in the arms of squalid wretchedness, about two 
years ago, and her body has mingled with the 
dust of one of our southern cities. There is a . 
valuable moral deducible from the history of i 
these twin sisters so imperfectly given, and it is I 
briefly told. There is no security for a life of 
comfort, peace and prosperity, but in the cultiva¬ 
tion of correct and virtuous principles, the strict 
avoidance of the least 44 appearance of evil,” ac¬ 
companied by a constant and assiduous effort to 
cherish all the benevolent and generous affection 
of the heart— 

“ Thr n vi-tue that! be thine, 

Then peace and joy iU rich reward.” 


O r i g 1 n a !• 

LESSON OF THE SEA. 

BT MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 


I. 

Go down onto the sea,— 

Where white-wing’d navies ride f 
Whose mighty pulses heave so free 
In strong, mysterious tide— 

Within whose coral cells, 

Where sunless forests creep. 

So many a wandering child of earth 
Hath laid him down to sleep. 

II. 

Go forth upon the sea,— 

And at the break of morn, 

Teach its young waves, the words of prayer 
Before the day is born,— 

And when the night grows dim,— 

Beguile the billows wild, 

With the holy hush of thine evening hymn. 
As the mother lulls her child. 

III. 

Go,—bow thee to the sea,— 

When the booming breakers roar,— * 
And a meek-hearted listener be, 

To all their fearful lore,— 

And learn, where tempests lower, 

Their lesson from the wave,— 

41 One voice, alone, can curb our power,— 
One arm alone can save ” 

IV. 

Go homeward, from the sea,— 

When its trial-hour is past, 

With deeper trust in Him who rule* 

The billow and the blast,— 

And when the charms of earth. 

Around thy bosom creep, 

Forget not, in thy time of mirth 
The wisdom of the deep. 

Hartford , Conn. 

18 


O r i f 1 a a 1. 

A LOVER’S VOW. 


•T MRS* EMMA C. EMBURT. 

“ Hear what the Highland Nora said.” 

I will not love thee: I have ever cost 

Too many passion-flowers on life’s dark tide, 
Then, like a truant school-boy, idly past 

My vacant hours to watch them onward glide. 

I will not love thee: why should I re-ope 
My bosom’s secret treasury to thee, 

And cull its richest gems* without one hope 
To see them shine amid thy blazonry ? 

I will not love thee: thou shalt never find 
My hopes to thee, like incense, offered up ; 

I will not fling sweet odors to the wind, 

Or melt another pearl in passion’s cup: 

I will not love thee: tb< ugh I know thee all 
That women envy and that men adore, 

Though on my soul thy smiles like sun-beams fall, 
My heart may worship , but must love no more* 


Original. 

TO MISS S. S * * * * . 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MRS. WIRT’S 14 FLORA,” 
OFPOSITE "HI ARTICLE ** OATS.” 

BY JOHN C. M’CABE, M. D. 

Why ask me to twine with your beautiful wreath. 

Those flowers of mine t they are wild from the hills; 

And theirleares have been formed by the Ice-Spirit’s breath. 
That catches and chains all the wandering rills. 

’Mid those flowers so brilliant, so lovely, so rare, 

Why throw my wild flower* to wither and die 7 

Too worthless to braid in your beautiful hair, 

Too trifling to merit a glance from your aye. 

Yet perchance as you bend o’er your vase of sweet roses, 
To catch the rich fragrance that lingers erewhile; 

Where my own simple flower all meekly reposes,— 
Terchance, o’er the trembler you’ll graciously smile. 

The flower and s~*ne, are row laid at thy shrine. 

Is the offering accepted that friendship would bring 7 

Then take my wild flower—sweet lady ’tis thine, 

And take my wild song, ’tis the last I may sing. 

The flower may wither, the tones of my lay 
May die like the winds on the murmuring sea; 

But the sun-beams of friendship will steadily play. 

Round the mem’ry, sweet lady, that’s sacred to thee. 

Once more,—when afar in thy childhood’s bright home, 
Like the dove that has wandered away from its nest. 

Thy footsteps shall turn; thence no longer to roam. 

No tear in thine eye and no pang in thy breast,— 

While the smiles of glad friends shall be mingled with thine, 
And memory brings forth all the past to thy view; 

With the names it shall whisper, say Susan, will mine 
Claim a place in your thoughts ?—lovely stranger, adient 
Norfolk , Va. f IB43. 


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150 


SONNETS TO THE POETS. — UNREST 


Original. 

SONNETS TO THE POETS. 


BY HENRY B. HIRST. 


I. 

TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Author of “ The Ages, 1 ' “ The Fountainetc. 

Serene as light, and silver-likc in flow 

As streamlet flowing through a flowery vale, 

Thy verses glide; or, eagle-like, they sail 
O’er crags and olden oaks ; or, moth-like, low, 

Where early violets and mosses grow, 

They pause to gather fragrance from the green 
Of golden grasses—seek the sylvan scene 
To paint the dappled deer—the hills to glow 
With sun-set glory—float upon the breeze 

Blowing from primal prairies, where the brave 
Of dim remembered tribes have found a grave, 

Or swell with roar of solemn surging seas. 

These are thy themes, and, in these paths (well trod!) 
Walk on, walk on.—Who Invest these, loves God. 

II. 

TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Author of 11 A Year's Life'' “ Rosalineetc . 

King of a fairy realm, where fancies throng 
To wait, like Genii of the wondrous King, 

Their masters mind’s commands, and then take wing 
Filling the air with subtle threads of song— 

All hail! for thine is power to stir the strong 
With words, the same the ancient Spenser wove 
Into undying verse; to fill with love 
Of radiant Right the votary of Wrong; 

To thrill the heart of beauty with the themes 
Of passionate tenderness, and the sadful soul 
With soothing visions that serene control 
And lull the listener into languid dreams— 

Dim dreams of knights and dames, and castles grand, 
And Puck and Oberon and Fairy-Land. 

III. 

TO ROBERT CONRAD, ESQ. 

Author of il Aylmere," “ Conrad of Naples'* etc. 

Warm-hearted, tuneful friend, whose lofty lyre 
Is only struck to deeds of high emprize; 

For never lays of love to lady’s eyes 
Flow from its chords; but with a Saxon fire— 

A fire of days of Eld! Thy heaving heart 

Swells the strong song; and, as the eagle cleaves 
The circumambient air, and soaring, leaves 
The lessening earth, so upward dost thou dart 
To seek the sun of kindred mighty minds— 

The pinions of thy stirring song dispread 
Shadow or land or sea, and where the red— 

The crimson armed Mars clangs on the winds 
His brazen shield—there, from the hell of strife 
Thou tearest, Titan-like, thy Lays of Life. 


IV. 

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Author of ** Mogg Me gore," il Moll Pitcher," etc. 

Champion of Right and foe of Wrong art thou— 

Firm foe of crime and folly! In thy hand 
Lies strength to crush the vices of the land, 

And lo ! they melt before thee, like the snow 
Before the sweltering sun. The gorgeous glow 
Of thine own autumn sky bums in thy song 
That giant as thy granite hills, or strong 
As thine own torrents, with a mighty flow 
Rolls roaring onward down the tide of time. 

Yet in its wildest mood, thy hand can stay 
Its headlong fury, and awake a lay 
Of love of human kind and faith sublime. 

Champion, speed on !—God speed and give thee might; 
Thou art his own ; for ** God is with the Right.” 
Philadelphia, Sept., 18*13. 


Original. 

UNREST. 

BY WILLIAM WARBERTOJf. 


My weary form is bent with care, 

The frost of grief is on my hair, 

The auburn hue which late was there. 
Hath left it now. 

My bones are marrowless and chilled, 
My heart with freezing water filled, 

And clammy dews, by pain distilled. 
Are on my brow. 

Death beckons with his skinny hand, 

He points me to the Silent Land, 

To name his will, is to command, 

And I must go. 

But ere my spirit leaves its clay, 

On untried wings to soar away, 

I would a word of comfort say, 

To calm thy woe. 

Death brings to me nor grief, nor fear, 
Longer I would not linger here, 

I see my life, without a tear, 

Approach its goal; 

For, ever since it did begin, 

Through joy and sorrow, truth and sin, 
I’ve felt a restlessness within 
That shook my soul. 

Striving to quell th’ internal war, 

I took ambition’s guiding star. 

Followed it fast, and followed far, 

In search of fame. 

Toiling by day—waking by night— 

I burnished armor for the fight, 

And high on gloiy’s shaft of light 
Engraved a name. 


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MARY.---A MEMORY 


151 


Bat when the race of Fame was run, 

Its heart-consuming labors done, 

And all its glittering prizes woo, 

And at my feet;— 

I found all valueless and vain. 

My youthful toil, my early pain, 

And still throbbed on my burning brain 
With ceaseless beat. 

Again, to quench the inward fire, 

I sought the waves of soft desire. 

That heave responsive to the lyre 
Of youthful Love. 

I ventured there—the waters bright 
Sent forth their streams of golden light; 
Methought to gain the joys of might 
Which seraphs move. 

Alas for Love!—the lights that lay 
Within his waters, only play, 

To show the treacherous array 
Of rocks beneath. 

And all too oft, the souls that dare 
To trust their fragile shallops there, 
Shipwrecked, lie stranded on Despair, 
The young heart’s death ! 

Still, still, within I found no peace, 

In vain I struggled for release, 

Alas, my throes did but increase 
The strange, wild thrill. 

I struggled on—my days sped by,— 
Weep not, dear brother, I must die,— 
Yet e’en Death’s pangs these throbs defy, 
I feel them still! 

But now the radiant beams of light 
That shoot from Heaven’s portals bright, 
From ’round my soul the clouds of night 
And darkness roll. 

I know, at last, these inward springs,— 
They are the ceaseless fluttering!, 

The growing efforts of the wings 
Of my young soul! 

Oh, chafe not ’neath thy mortal chain! 
Life here, all wearisome and vain, 
Begins, continues, ends in pain, 

Ond dreary night— 

But then, its postern portal opes 
On Heaven’s land of brilliant hopes. 
Where the freed soul no longer gropes, 
But soars in light! 

Brother, farewell! within this clay 
My spirit will not longer stay, 

Its wings are strong to fly away, 

It would be free. 

I feel at last its pinions rise, 

It bounds, it trembles, flutters, flies, 

It leads me, brother, to the skies— 

There follow me! 

Yonkers, Nov. 1843. 


Original. 

MARY.—A MEMORY. 

BY ANNA MARIA HIRST. 

There were no laurels on her girlish brow 
When first in childhood’s holy hours they met; 
There were no words of love, no whispered vow, 

No trembling tones to cause his wild regret. 

She was too innocent to dream of love, 

And thinking, hoping not, he thought her fair 
Passed on, while Ac, in solemn silence, wove 

The thoughts that wrought him all his future care. 
They met again—the girl had passed away, 

And, in her place the lovely woman stood; 

There was deep love within her eyes of grey. 

And, in her heart a magic, merry mood; 

There were sweet graces in her ways, that stole 
Like winds that pilfer from unknowing flowers 
Their balmy breaths, the worship of his soul, 

His heart, his hopes, the lightness of his hours. 

He saw her fairy form in dreams by days, 

He felt the pressure of her hand at even, 

And heard her voice of melody, and lay 

Like one who hears, entranced, the hymns of heaven. 
He watched each motion of her rustling dress, 

Each lustrous movement of her liquid eyes, 

Envied the air its undisturbed caress 

Of her whose presence was his Paradise. 

And Time rolled on, and things, they had their change; 

He saw she loved him, but too poor to claim 
Her hand with honor, with a wild and strange, 

Stern passion taught the maid to hate his name— 
Taught her to hate him, when his heart was all 
One world, of which she was the single sun— 
Taught her to hate him, and the heavy pall 
Fell on his hopes—his day of joy was done. 

She was a child of song ! Her heart was bred 
In love of God and God’s most lovely things; 

Her lofty soul to passion’s dreams was wed, 

And, Sappho-like, she felt its serpent stings; 

But, unlike Sappho, with a secret scorn 
Of him who left her, lived in silence on, 

Her hope the future, her remaining morn 

Stained with no thought of one so basoly gone. 

And he grew rich and they were yet apart, 

She knowing, dreaming not he loved her still— 
That he had ever loved her—that his heart 
Was yet the utter plaything of her will; 

For they were friendless of the kind of friends 
Whose single word had torn the veil away 
That kept from these two hearts the love that lends 
The light to love—that changes night to day. 

And Time still passed; and Fortune who had rent 
The twain asunder, with a smiling eye, 

Again her glances on their pathways bent; 

And heard w ith pitying ear each lingering sigh; 
And, like two streams that through a waste had crept 
For wear}' leagues in sight but yet apart, 

Their tides of love together flowed, and slept— 

The peaceful ocean of a common heart. 

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▼ ALSB DB LA TILLS DU REGIMENT. 



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YALSE DE LA FILLS DU RBGIMBNT 


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154 


EDITORS TABLE 


EDITORS’ TABLE. 

Frost-work for the New Year.—Is it possible for mode¬ 
rate and simple persons, such as we are, to say any thing new 
«r interesting upon the return of this heart's holiday? Truly, 
we doubt; and evon if we bad the undisputed ability, we 
much lack the will. We hear the clear ring of the icicles, as 
they crack and tingle in the beautiful air, sometimes breaking 
away from their support, and falling like a flash of starlight, 
to the earth ; and the merry mu*ic of bells comes pouring in a 
mingled tide through the window, stirring our hearts like the 
clangor of a trumpet to the knights of A>-hby de la Zouche. 
We pant to leave our dim-lighted chamber, and these heaps 
of books, and all the paraphernalia of our sometimes delightful, 
sometimes wearisome profession, and to make a part of the 
glee that every where rings around. Our Angers contract 
reluctantly upon the unwilling pen, and the ink In our cornu¬ 
copia, (a present from a dear friend, who is thus ever present 
at our dearest tasks, in the morning and in the deep midnight,) 
looks, for once, heavy and frowning, as if nothing bright and 
beautiful lay within its shining depths. 

Heigho! *tia in good sooth, weary work to bend over the 
(task, straining the brain after some inkling of inspiration— 
trying to force still another spark of electricity from the ex¬ 
hausted Leyden jar—while the heart rebels against its confine¬ 
ment, and is clamorous to be away. So many delicious temp¬ 
tations conspire at this sweet season to seduce one from labor, 
and to draw him within the great maelstrom of social pleasure 
and enjoyment that every where is roaring around, that we 
should hold ourselves half excused, dear ladies, for playing 
truant ourselves, for once, and neglecting the little t£te-d-tetc 
which, for so many years, we have held with you at the com¬ 
mencement of every month. But no! We will not now begin 
to manifest a want of interest in our work, after it has been so 
kindly and universally adopted by our countrywomeu as their 
cynosure. Every mouth shall see us making renewed exer¬ 
tions to merit the smiles of our dear friends; and we look 
forward with hope aod pleasure to mauy long years of an 
agreeable and profitable Compunion-ship. 

We think we have been most successful this month, in pre¬ 
senting yon a “ Companion,” as brilliant, as intellectual, and 
as fascinating as the joyous season that brings it to your bou¬ 
doir table. Our ample pages sparkle like the diamond snow- 
crust, with the gems of thought aod feeling scattered over 
them, and the spirit of wit and beauty presides in our picture- 
gallery. The Valley of the Connecticut, (Mount Holyoke,) is 
a landscape of most surpassing beauty aud magnificence. The 
likeness ia wonderful for its accuracy, and the artisticul effects 
of the engraving are most superb. The rich and pathetic 
print of Ruth and Boaz has never been exceeded for delicacy of 
conception or sweetness of execution. It speaks and lives to 
the holiest and most precious of our senses and perceptions. 
But the gem of our preseut number,—a feature as novel as it 
ia striking and effective in the fashionable monthlies,—is that 
exquisite embodiment of truthful humor and refined wit, “ Ca- 
landrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco, in search of the Heliotrope.” 
We are certain that if the good-natured Bocaccio could him¬ 
self examine this picture, be would pronounce it, in every 
respect,—what he would havo produced, had he been painter 
instead of author. 

It will thus be seen that we present our readers with three 
splendid steel engravings in our January number,—omitting 
the usual fashion-plate. There has been so little chauge iu 
the fashions since our December issue, that we have thought a 
plate unnecessary. We have only to make the general obser¬ 
vation that the rage for gaudy aud brilliuut colors has subsi¬ 
ded, in fashionable circles, ere yet others had fairly succeeded 
in imitating it; and now, with the exception of furs and 
feathers, worn in unusual profusion, every thing in dress, as it 
always should be, is plain and unobtrusive. The imperious god¬ 
dess, Fashion, never does such wretched violence to the seuse 
of true beauty, as when she bedecks and bedizens her fair 
▼otariea in gey and flaunting colors. Good taste, like great 


| genius, rather interests and absorbs the attention then seeks 
to startle by melodramatic show and spectacle. A fine woman, 

I j well and properly dressed, is like a fine picture; it does not 
strike very particularly at first; but. as you continue to eon- 
I template it, you are more and more fascinated and enthralled 
1 by its latent beauties, which steal out one by oee upon the 
I visions, like stars in the evening sky, until the very air in 
j radiant with beauty. 

i Our Copy-right Trial. —Probably every one of our reader* 
,| has heard, iu one way or another, of our “copy-right trial.’* 

1 It has been read by at least half a million in this city and the 
1 immediate vicinity,—in all aorta of shapes,—some malignant, 
j some witty, some stupid, and one or two fair and candid. Our 
il only object in referring to it at all, is to show our readers that, 
i although acting innocently, aud iu all good faith, we have 
i hazarded a large sum of money for their gratification. From 
! the commencement of our career, we have never hesitated to 
! make any expenditure, or to incur any responsibility, that 
i might increase the value of our periodical. To gratify our 
IJ subscribers has ever been our only ambition. Law suits and 
ji threats have never for an instant deterred us. We have bat¬ 
tled to tbe last for our rights, and the interests of our aubscri- 
i bers,—and, whatever muy be the nature of the obstacles we 
| are for the future to encounter, we will continue faithfully to 
do so. There is something in the relation in which we stand 
I with regard to the ladies of New York and America, which cru- 
!> *tes a feeling of chivalric devotion to them and their enlight¬ 
ened tastes, that is very dear to us, and stimulates ua to the 
j greatest and most unceasing exertions in their behalf. 

A full explanation of tbe circumstances under which we 
! were innoceully placed in a position that enabled Mr. Millet 
! to take advantage of us, we were anxious to substantiate upon 
the trial; but our testimony upon this point,—as well as that 
■ which we offered to prove that Mr. Millet himself had appro- 
I printed the words of the song, without permission or knowl¬ 
edge of tbe author,—was ruled out by the court, who decided 
.the question, (as perhaps it was justified in doing.) simply 
upon a technicality,—although, by the same rule, had Mr. 
Millet been able to have proved the whole amount of our cir- 
I dilation, (.‘ay fifteen thousand,) he would of course have been 
! entiled to thirty thousand dollars for a song, the words of 
which he himself appropriated without leave, as well as aix 
hundred and twenty-five dollars! This would be paying tolera- 
i bly dear for a soug, at all events—and would probably have been 
• sufficient to have purchased “the Cot beneath the Hill,” itself, 
—with perhaps, a very pretty potato-patch adjoining! 
j But seriously—this prosecution, all things considered, is • 
j strange one. in May last, our musical editor, without couault- 
i> >ng ua, (as had always been the custom,—we having the most 
I, implicit confidence in bis judgment,)—gave out to the printer 
I a song, entitled “ tbe Cot beneath the Hill,” which appeared 
j| in the June number of the Companion. It subsequently waa 
) discovered by us, that tbe same song had been published in 
j 1841, in the usual form of mu»ic-.«hec(s, by Mr. Millet. With- 
: out consultation with any one, wo immediately wrote the fol¬ 
lowing explicit acknowledgment of the error into which we 
had been drawn, aud of the source whence tbe tong was de¬ 
rived,—which was printed in tbe Companion of the next 
I month, (July;) 

i “ The Cot beneath Ike Hill .”—The music in our June issue 
j belongs, as we have learned siuce the number was published, 
by copy-right, to Mr. Millet. We regret exceedingly that 
such a circumstance should have occurred, as we would not, 

, under any consideration, have done the semblance of injustice 
to so generous and enterprizing a publisher us the proprietor 
j of this copy-right. We copied the music, with some a Iter a- 
tion, from the “Boston Musical Visitor,” and if anv of our 
Kubscribcrs are anxious for tbe orixinnl and correct piece, they 
. can secure it by applying to Mr. Millet, 320 Broadway. 

| In nddition to this, it was proved that fire hundred copies 
only of the song were printed by Mr. Millet, at fifty cents 
each ; and still be prosecuted us for three thousand dollars ! 
whilo his entire edition,—provided that, from May, 1841, to 
June, 1843, the wbole of it tmd been sold,—would have amount¬ 
ed to just tiro hundred and fifty dollars ! 


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EDITORS TABLE. 


155 


Bat Mr. Millet’s edition of the song, up to the time of its 
publication in the Companion, bad scarcely been entered upon 
by purchasers. Our publication of it did him good, and drew 
public attention to it. Every lady keeps ber collection of 
music for the purpose of binding, and our pages could not bo 
incorporated with those of regular music-sheets—consequently, 
if the composition were a superior one, every lady, (after our 
acknowledgment in our July number,) would send to Mr. 
Millet for a copy of his music, to be placed with her collec¬ 
tion already accumulated. 

Thus we contend that Mr. Millet has been largely benefitted 
by the publication in the Ladies' Companion of “ the Cot 
beneath the Hill,”—for which we have been, (very reluctantly 
we assure you!) made to contribute still further, by a direct 
tax upon our pocket. We must say that our cause was well 
conducted by Mr. E. H. Hudson, a young but eminent lawyer 
of this city. 

How far we have been to blame, in the business, we leave 
oar readers to judge. 

Thx Hedge-hoc or Newspaper Literature. —It is seldom 
that iu the conduct of the “ Ladies* Companion" we condescend 
to notice the isolated attacks of scurrilous writers, much less to 
enter into controversies with individuals, who having them¬ 
selves become outlaws in the Republic of Letters, seek to iujure 
and to vilify all those whom they have failed to drag down to 
their own contemptible level. It is pleasing to know, that per- 


thot those whom be traduces and vilifies to-day, are men whom 
be had formerly held up to the admiration of mankind. The 
*' Ladies’ Companion” was not very long ago, an object 
of his especial veneration and praise. His mercenary spirit 
found in our unsuspecting bonhomie an ever fruitful source 
wherein to gratify its grovelling aspirations. Pity had yielded 
| to the rampant vanity of the literary Scarabceus what sober 
judgment would fain have denied. In an evil hour, the info- 
moua expedients which the wretch had so long adopted in order 
to practice extortion with impunity, were exposed to the light 
of day. His ominous name was cancelled from the roll of con¬ 
tributors. Heuce his unceasing and most persevering efforts to 
detract from a publication which be bad once so warmly eulo¬ 
gized. It is unnecessary to say more. This passing glance 
through the light of retrospection will, we are confident, suffice' 
to put our readers on their guard against any further misrep¬ 
resentation with which they may be fhvored from tbe disap¬ 
pointed and ravenous hedge-hog or newspaper liters tueU. 

New Books or the Month. —The year opens with eonside- 
l rable brilliancy—although new material seems to be rapidly 
| exhausting itself, leaving our publishers to fall back upon tbe 
; older and more substantial, though perhaps, not more familiar, 

I works of a past generation, or a once-spent wave of the great 
! ocean of literature. We have no room for a detailed review or 
new books, in our present number, and must content ourselves 
with a mere catalogue of some of those which gracefully encum- 


oons of this degraded class are very scarce. The paths of 
honest industry are so thickly strewn with the flowers of plea¬ 
santness and peace, that true talent is never tempted to swerve 
from them. It is only turbulent spirits, who, like that revolting 
counterfeit ofhumaniiy, Park Benjamin of the New World, arc 
fond ofwallowing in the sloughsofdepravity and corruption, that 
prefer following a less congenial course. The predatory charac¬ 
ter of the wretch we have just mentioned, is so well known, that, 
albeit, his attacks upon our reputation and our prosperity, have 
been very numerous, we have almost invariably suffered thrm to 
pass by “ as the idle wind which we regard not.” Secure in the 
consciousness of our rectitude,—flattered hy a steadily increas¬ 
ing patronage,—and supported by a corps of contributors, among 
whom will be found some of the brightest and most cultivated 
intellects in the country, we have allowed the scorpion to 
crawl unmolested, convinced that its sting was poisonless, and 
its rage as impotent as the last struggles of an expiring rush- 
light. We are not sure that a slight degree of commiseration 
for those bodily deformities with which it pleased an All- 
Wise Providence to blast Ibis reptile on its first entrance into 
tbe world, has not been tbe main cause of our forbearance. We 
have ofteo been told by eye-wituesses that whenever the poor 
creature is so unfortunate at to catch a glimpse of his disgusting 
form reflected in a mirror, be foams horribly at the mouth aud 
poors forth savage imprecations upon all the human race. Be¬ 
lieving therefore, that his hostility to us, and indeed to all those 
who have been imprudent enough to relieve his wants, or 
otherwise to befriend him in the hour of need, was the result of 
e partially insane temperament, we have generally preferred 
giving him the charity of our silence, instead of seeking redress 
for tbe injuries so wantonly committed, by retaliation. In doing 


ber our green table. 

| Poems or Samuel Rogers: With Numerous Illustrations; a 
; new edition , revised, with additions by the Author: Lea if 

I Blanchard .—This is by far the most beautiful edition extant of 
.1 the works of this standard English poet. The fine steel engra¬ 
il vings, which are scattered like summer dreams, through the 
lj beautiful pages, are amongst tbe most exquisite specimens of 
[j art we have ever seen. 

Original Poems for Infant Minds: by the Taylor Family; 

II from the twelfth London edition : Saxton if Miles. —A collection 
|i of very pretty—sometimes beautiful and touching—poems for 
I young people, calculated to improve the heart and store the 

mind with the simplest yet most important lessons. 

Ned Myers : or, a Life Before the Mast; edited by J. Fenni- 
' more Cooper: Lea if Blanchard. —This is a common-place 
! affair, sold for three shillings, York currency, and scarcely 
worth the attention bestowed upou it by its distinguished 
editor. 

The Works of Mrs. Hf.mans. —Messrs, Lea and Blanchard 
have issued the works of this most plaintive and exquisite 
' poetess, in a fine and cheap form. The murmurings of her 
genius are sweet and touching as the melody of wind-struck 
harps, sighing amid blighted roses. 

j Every Lady’s Book: J. T. Crowen. —This is a neat and 
i invaluable little book of recipes for all sorts of light end deli¬ 
cious cookerid—the poetry, in fact, of the cuisine. We have 
little knowledge in these matters, but are told that it is every 
thing that a work on a subject coming so boose to every man’s 


this, we thought we only consulted the wishes of our thousands j 
of readers,—the dignity of the press generally, and above all, l| 
the well-being of those talented ladies who are associated with j 
ns in tbe Editorial management of the Magazine. If we have U 
broken silence on this occasion, it is only to remind our readers ' 
and subscribers of the motives which have actuated our conduct ij 
throughout, notwithstanding the many atrocities committed j 
against our interest by tbe notorious Park Benjamin,—the ; 
universally despised hedge-hog of newspaper literature. We ^ 
are well awere that in a community like this, where the pur- j 
•nits of commerce and the excitement of politics engross men’s j 
faculties, frequently to the exclusion of every thing else, people j 
are apt to forget the events which take place out of tbe imme- j 
diate sphere of their observation. No one has taken a more j, 
desperate advantage of this peculiar bias in the public mind j 
Chan Che unprincipled Benjamin; for it will generally be found 


“ business and bosom ” should be. 

Willis’ Poems. —Tbe proprietors of the New Mirror have 
been delighting the town with a kind of aristocratic shilling lite - 
rature, if such a phrase may be allowed—consisting of two extra 
New Mirrors, containing the’’Sacred Poems,"and the“Poema 
of Passion,” of N. P. Willis, one of the editors of that popular 
periodical. They are printed in a most exquisite style, and, aa 
we learn, have had an immense sale. Well do they deserve it 
—for Willis is at length beginning to be generally acknow¬ 
ledged what, for years, the •* judicious” bare known him to bo 
—tbe first of living poets. 

Gibbon’s Decline and Fall or the Roman Emtire.—T he 
Harpers have commenced the issue, in semi-monthly numbers, 
of this great classic work—to be completed in fifteen numbers. 
It is worth every one's while to purchase it. 


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156 


EDITORS TABLE 


Gbrolstein.— The Harpers have published M Gerotetain, or { 
the Sequel to the Mysteries of Paris." It is important that all | 
who have read the Mysteries should peruse this also. 

The Knickerbocker.— We learn that the proprietorship of! 
this sterling and most excellent magazine reverts, with the < 
January number, exclusively to L. Gaylord Clarke, Esq., I 
the gentleman under whose auspices, since the death of bis j 
lamented brother, the Knickerbocker has been steadily rising,in I 
public estimation. We hope the cares and perplexities of the | 
publisher’s desk will not claim so much of Mr. Clarke's time as ! 
to deprive us of the pleasure derived from the inimitable pro* I 
ductions of his pen. ! 

The Birth-right. —This is the title of Mrs. Gore’s last novel, j 
just issued by the Harpers. We have not yet had time to read 
it, but we hear it very highly spoken of—which will probably 
answer our purpose just as well. 

Travels or M. Violet in California, Mexico, Texas, etc. 
Edited by Capt. Marryatt: Harper 4f Brother #«—We have ! 
not yet read this little, poor-looking book ; nor have we much 
desire to do so. The letter from Mr. Kendall, exposing the I 
Baronet's gross and audacious thefts from the Picayune, and 
other sources, has satisfied us that Capt. Marryatt has added 
nothing to bis reputation by the publication of this work. ! 

The Education or Mothers: or, the Civilization of Man - j 
kind by Women ; by L. Aims Martin ; Lea if Blanchard. —This | 
is the celebrated work, (very beautifully translated into English ' 
by Edwin Lee, Esq.,) to which the prize of the French Academy I 
for the best essay on “ Woman in her political and social rela¬ 
tions,” was awarded. Every mother and daughter in the world | 
should read this little work, understanding^. ! 


j Frederick the Great, his Court and Times. Edited by 
| Thomas Campbell ; 2 volt .: Lea if Blanchard —This is a Hook 
; chiefly celebrated for being an abortion from the pen of a great 
poet, who labors uuder the idea that he is equally great as a 
prose writer—and as having formed the apologv for one of 
Macauley’s most brilliant papers in the E-linhnrgh Review. 

, The work is feebly done, and the only wonder is that so little 
has been made from so much material. 

The People's Annual, 1844.—A most mmgn'ficent present 
for the holidays , with the above title, has just been issued. It 
is embellished with thirty-six steel engravinre— 4u>eloe pieces of 
music, and over Jive hundred pages of tales, sketches, poetry, 
etc. Among the contributors are ell of the first writers of the 
country—viz: Miss C. M. Sedgewick, Mrs. Sieouroev. Mrs. 
Embury, Mrs. Osgood, Mrs. Stephens ; Gilmore Simms, Inrra- 
ham, Tuckermao—in fact every author of eminence. Tt is the 
cheapest Annual ever published in America. It is sold by the 
booksellers generally at the extreme low price of two dollars 
and fifty cents—beautifully bound in embossed muslin and 
lettered in gold. Copies can be had at our office. 

Theatrical and Musical. —The only theatrical event of 
the month worthy of note, is the second engagement of Mr. 
Macready at the Park, which commenced on the 6th ult. 
Owing to the unheard of excitement attending the advent of 
Ole Bull, Mr. Macready's audiences dwindled somewhat in num¬ 
bers, under the natural and inevitable revulsion of a great 
public excitement; yet he was fully attended, and played with 
j bis accustomed fire and spirit. His lofty and noble coucep- 
j tions, and bis wonderfully pure and polished style of acting, 
j arc somethiug so different from the rant and humbug of the 


LrvKs or the Queens or Englad, from the JVorman Con¬ 
quest t with Anecdotes of their Courts : by Agnes Strickland. I 
Lea Af Blanchard .—The third volume of this most vivid and j 
authentic portraiture of men and things, kings and women, is 
just out. It seems to us to be the most interesting volume yet j 
published. | 

Picciola.—The Prisoner or Fenestrella : or, Captivity 
CAPT tve : by M. de Saintine; Lea fy Blanchard.— Our only 
regret in noticing this most exquisite little work is that 
the modesty of the excellent translator has prevented us j 
from thanking him, by name, for the most acceptable favor be , 
has bestowed upon the lovers of the pure, the beautiful, the 1 
true. The present is the onl y good translation we have ever , 


j day, that they afford to the intellectual a most pleasurable 
j pastime. His performance of the leading characters, of 
the higher range of the tragic drama, impresses itself so 
I deeply upon the hearts of bis auditors as to leave little 
fear for his ever being forgotten. His acting is like a rare 
| painting by one of the old masters, which, the more minutely 
it is examined, wins the more upon the admiration. Com- 
I parisons between Mr. Macready and other actors, are im¬ 
possible. None can reach the level of the platform on which 
he stands alone. His genius, bis profound critical judgment, 
and his iron perseverance, have built him a monument that 
will endure for ever. 

In music we have been peculiarly favored ; but so thoroughly 
and so ably have the various performers and performances been 


1 1 criticised by the daily press, (which, on this subject has foirly 
In regard to “ Picciola," itself, we think it necessary, “ in the „ outdid „ ilwj|f j tho| thcre ia DOthioy j e ft, nece ssary for us to 
present state of the market,” to copy from the pretty preface ; „ 8y Ag a man „ r of reference, we record the names of the 
to this edition, the following paragraph : “ At « period when j var j out distinguished artists who have been amongst us during 
the frivolity of modern works of fiction, and more especially t||e month . G f violinists we have had Ole Bull, Vieuxtemps, 
novels of artificial life, excited the general condemnation of- A rtot and Wallace,—all great, but Ole Bull greatest. Madame 
criticism, a conception at once so bold and simple, so moral and Ciotj Daraoreau and Madame Castellan divide the bays as 
poetical, as that of M. de Saintine, should be received with VOCB , igta; amI , he efforts of all this great talent have amused 
favor. Picciola ia the most striking and original tale that has L a mus j ca | enthusiasm amongst our citizens, which manifests 
appeared since the triumphs of ‘Ondine t’ or may be, perhaps, j j tge ir in Tar j OIlg delightful ways. We shall shortly become a 
more aptly described as such a version of Robinson Crusoe, as |' g rea t musical nation. Bowery. —The performances at this 
Silvio Pellico might have couceivcd in the affecting loneliness house have been well attended. The principal novelty of tho 


of * Prigioni.'" j month has been the dramatising, by Mr. C. H. Saunders, the 

iEcRi Somnia : Recreations of a Sick Room: by Ezekiel I low comedian of the company, and a vary clever young man. 
Bacon; John Alien *—These poems are chiefly tokens and! of the Mysteries of Paris, which bad a very successful ran. 
tributes of honorable affections and kindly feelings—and wo j! The Bronze Horse, Cherry and Fair Star, with aeveral other 


involuntarily treat those sacred subjects with something more ! successful pieces have been produced, and were greeted with 
delicate than forbearance. Of the skill with which they are i evcr y token <>** approbation. The capacities of this theatre for 
wrought out it is not necessary to speak. They are hallowed M lhe performance of gorgeous spectacles are unequalled—hence 
by the occasion which brought them forth-the solemn reflec- ! tho universal success ever attending their repreaenUUooa. 
tions of a sick room. There is something very beautiful to us i I Niblo's.— The experiment of an amphitheatre has succeeded 


in the sight of an old man, pausing at the close of a virtuous 
existence and calmly recalling the uneventful yet cheerful 
incidents and associations with which the proper exercise of 
the affections embellishes every life, however unobtrusive. 
We cannot, in truth, speak much in favor of the poetry in Ibis 
little volume; but we can yield unhesitating admiration to the 
feelings by which it is prompted. 


admirably—and this beautiful and comfortable establishment ie 
nightly filled with the more respectable families of the city, 
attended by their younger children. The sight of the audience 
alone, is worth the price of a card of admission. Olympic. 
This little laughing dimple on the fair foce of the win ter 'a 
amusements, is in a perfect tide of the most brilliant aucccet. 


It is nightly crammed and gorged to it* highest capacity. 


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THE LADIES’ COMPANION. 


NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY, 1 8 44 . 


THE BEAUTY OF ENGLAND. 

The beautiful and majestic toumure , the sym¬ 
metrical and elastic forms, of the ladies of the 
English aristocracy, have been for three or four 
centuries at least, the envy and admiration of the 
world. What may be termed the poetry of con¬ 
figuration seems to belong as a natural inheritance 
to these proud, haughty and colcUhearted beau¬ 
ties. Taught by that most contemptible of all 
affectations, the desire to be thought better 
pleased any where else than at home, our writers 
too frequently fall into the ridiculous blunder of 
the English Cockney scribblers, who go into rap¬ 
tures over France, Spain and Italy, without 
having ever voyaged beyond Wapping, and seek, j 
particularly in the matter of female loveliness, to I 
decry their own fair and splendid countrywomen, j 
in all possible and impossible occasions. To the j 
native of the Continent, who happens to find him¬ 
self either in England or the United States, this 
is ludicrous enough; and our beautiful sisters 
and daughters may console, themselves for the 
idiotic blindness of their scribbling countrymen, 
with the deep and absorbing admiration with , 
which their magnificent and entrancing style of 
beauty inspires every foreigner of fashion, refine¬ 
ment or good sense. I 

We said, in speaking of the ladies of the Eng¬ 
lish aristocracy, that they were cold-hearted. We | 
used the term in its ordinary acceptation—we I 
meant simply that they invested their beauties 
with that exquisite frost-work of modesty and re¬ 
serve, which it is so delicious for the sighs of 
honorable love to breath upon and dissipate. | 
Passion, in the abstract, is a thing unknown to 
the well-bred English and American maiden—it 
is a thunder-tone which never is awakened in 
their guileless bosoms, but by the electricity of 
holy and mutual love. They feel, with their 
delicate instinct, that female beauty, in which 
is not shrined the unextinguishable lamp of 
modesty, shedding its rosy lustre upon all the tran¬ 
sparent symmetry of that sacred temple, is but a 
statue of ice, which melts beneath the fierce sun 
of passion, but to mingle with the gross earth and 
be trampled under foot of the meanest and the 
basest. An invisible impulse,—a sweet yet irre¬ 
sistible power, of whose existence they themselves 
are conscious but by its effects,—keeps their 
hearts and minds, as themselves, not only pure, 

19 


but beyond the thought or aspiration for aught 
that could lay the shadow of taint upon them. 
They learn of their own thoughts to keep their 
beauty as a sacred and inviolable repository of 
Heaven’s choicest and most delicious fragrance; 
and, it is only when the subtle flame of love, born 
like themselves in Heaven and sent seeking its 
congenial nourishment through all the world, 
unseata the old alabaster portals of their gentle 
bosoms, that the fountain of affection—clear, deep 
and tranquil as the eternity to which it is retur¬ 
ning—bursts forth and flows, for ever and for ever. 
The weary soul to whom is permitted to refresh 
its drooping pinions in that wave, is blessed 
indeed! 

The Greeks—who knew all things, and knew 
them better than any other, because their keen 
sense of the Beautiful kept them in constant com¬ 
munication with Nature and the God of the Beau* 
tiful—personified in their religious system, three 
sorts of female loveliness—first, the reproducing 
being, with a voluptuous and sensuous configu¬ 
ration, small head, (as showing that mental occu¬ 
pation, was not her destiny,) and a thrilling lip 
and eye, coining a passion in every motion—be¬ 
wildering the senses with every undulation of that 
sweet head and bewitching form. This was 
Venus. Next came the hunting, warring and tra¬ 
velling faculty, personified under the form of 
Diana—beautiful yet chaste, and full of dignity, 
condescension, faithfulness, wisdom, but no love. 
After her is the intellectual woman—the imme¬ 
diate creation of the breath of God— Psyche— 
the mind, the soul, the highest embodied intelli¬ 
gence. How truthful, and how beautiful is this 
noble yet simple story ! 

Without going through with the history of 
woman, in the different nations descended from 
the Caucasian race,—we will merely add that the 
English and American women, as a general charac¬ 
teristic, unite these three kinds of female excel¬ 
lence. Lovely and bewildering in the spells they 
cast around our captive senses, they blend the 
grandeur and dignity of wisdom, propriety, modesty 
and good sense, even in their most unguarded 
impulses, while their refined and powerful intel¬ 
lects keep pace proudly side by side with the 
haughty and daring soul of man, or even overstep 
us in the race for immortality. 


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178 


THE WEEK-DAY MORALIST. 


O r i ff i n • I. 

THE WEEK-DAY MORALIST. 

LACONICS. 

■T THE AUTHOR OF “THE YEMASSEE,” “THE KINSMAN,” ETC. 

I. 

The popular prosperity depends very much 
upon the popular morality. It is for a people to 
determine for themselves what they shall be, and 
what they shall become. Soil, climate, fortune, 
go but a small distance, comparatively speaking, 
in obtaining or securing eminence, happiness 
or permanence to any nation. Vainly would 
the patriot strive, and the sage counsel, and the 
soldier fight, if a poo pie are neither true to 
themselves nor active in their proper purposes. 
In their own hearts and hands lie the secret of 
their moral, their social and political successes, 
and the labor which is taken for them, in which 
they do not share, is so much labor thrown 
away. Even Hercules, a god, could only assist 
those who were first prepared and willing to put 
their own shoulders to the wheel. 

ii. 

There is no doctrine more dangerous than 
that which is perpetually making hideous 
outcry about (supposed) dangerous doctrines. 
No errors of opinion can possibly be dangerous 
in a country where opinion is left free to grapple 
with them. Undoubtedly, such freedom pro¬ 
duces the wildest freaks of speculation, the 
crudest philosophies, and morals and metaphy¬ 
sics, equally insisted upon and impossible. But 
they are of a fungous growth, have a mushroom 
life, which the next day’s sun dries up and dis¬ 
perses. They need alarm nobody,—yet they do. 
How many men, with hearts of lions, have yet 
been scared by shadows! Philosophy has its 
bugbears as well as superstition. 

in. 

In morals, as in the mere essentials of social 
strength, the general diffusion of truth among 
mankind,-—though no one individual shall have 
grown a jot wiser than the millions who have gone 
before, and have been great in preceding ages, 
—is the great but simple process for working out 
the grand consummation. The universal recep¬ 
tion of complete truth—as it is possessed now, 
and was possibly possessed in times past, by 
certain individuals,—is that coming of God’s 
kingdom, the advent of which is the sole business 
of prophecy, and the great, but how little appre¬ 
ciated, hope of our race. 

IT. 

Strange that we should conclude a people to 


be unequal to the business of their own govern¬ 
ment, because they sometimes happen to go 
wrong; as if it were any argument against a 
man’s reason, because, happening to dine out 
with his friend, he drinks too much wine, (a very 
reprehensible error, to be sure,) and partially 
(though temporarily,) loses the proper command 
of it. The man and the nation may equally fall 
into error, but this suggests no good reason why 
they should not in the end come right. 

v. 

A nation, at one moment, seems to be utterly 
debased and self-abandoned. It exhibits neither 
great purposed, great performances, nor great 
men. But one of the common errors of the 
(so called) philosophical historian, is to judge of 
nations at passing and isolated periods—periods 
of transition, at the best, when none of its perma¬ 
nent phases can possibly be apparent. Sleep is 
an element of action. A nation must have its 
period of repose quite as much as an individual. 
May not these periods of unperformance, be, in 
fact, periods of preparation ? A nation may 
stoop in order to spring, as the man crouches 
low to earth, when he would make his farthest 
leap. 

VI. 

Man should never-despair of his resources or 
his race. He frequently does little or nothing, 
because he does not manfully attempt enough. 
We are very sure (and, indeed, the experience of 
every day adds to the proof,) that the true extent 
of his powers has never yet been developed. He, 
himself, is quite as much confounded at his own 
achievements, when he makes them, as any of 
the spectators. He is usually forced to hi9 best 
performances, by what he vulgularly calls neces¬ 
sity. We might easily find another word and 
origin for the impulse which he obeys, at such 
moments,—and by which he performs. Though 
his reason trembles to advance, his blood bounds 
to the consummation of the unusual tasks. 
Verily, we too much underrate thi9 instinct. 
What is it but the God within him, throwing 
aside the shackles of clay, the impediments, and 
doubts and fears of a poor earthly reason, and 
hurrying him onward—he, blind the while- 
under the unerring guidance of an immortal 
soul! 

VII. 

To the sight of ordinary men, there i9, at this 
moment, scarcely any thing desirable in the 
position of ministers either in Great Britain or 
America. There seems to be every where at 
hand, a general breaking up of the waters. All 
the political elements are in commotion, and 


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THB WBXI-0AY MORALIST. 


173 


moderate-mioded men may well be modest. 
(Fools, of course, will rush in at any period.) 
Timidity naturally shrinks from trials beyond its 
strength;—but occasions and times like these, 
are the true accoucheurs of genius. It is in the 
storm that the strong spirit is roused to exertion, 
who, when the sky is untroubled and serene, 
seems unvexed by ambition and hardly suscep¬ 
tible to life. Necessities need the spirits which 
are to contend with them, and external pressure 
forces into action, for resistance, the unsuspected 
energies which repose within. Holiday states¬ 
men, like holiday captains—fierce persons upon 
parade—are seldom the performing persons in 
the day of battle. On such occasions, if they 
do not wholly keep out of sight, they very soon 
convict themselves of incompetence or imbecility, 
and are summarily dismissed, by shot or scorn, to 
their more appropriate places. Mediocrity seems 
to be the great misfortune of present statesman¬ 
ship. It is doubtful where to find the leading 
mind equal to the occasion, as it now threatens, 
equally, perhaps, in Great Britain, America and 
France. As the storm advances, and the danger 
presses, the penalty will have to be paid by each 
of these nations for the feeble conduct into which 
they have suffered themselves to fall. But this 
very penalty, terribly enforced, betrays the careful 
concern of Providence. But for the chastening 
we should not have the care, and the penalty 
must precede the forgiveness. The true man , 
will succeed the imbecile—the king-man, born 
for rule—and the storm will cease at the simple 
waving of his hand. The good ship, with a good 
pilot at the helm, will reach her harborage. A 
sick nation, like a sick man, must be physicked, 
let blood, perhaps, and will suffer from nausea, 
exhaustion and other evil concomitants, before it 
entirely recovers. But, in all probability, it will 
recover. The greatest misfortune then is, and 
the one that it will remember longest, is the 
heavy bill of expenses which is to follow. 

VIII. 

No government can be prosperous or perma¬ 
nent, the people of which are unsuccessful in 
their social objects. It matters not very much 
what their objects are. The unimpeded prose¬ 
cution of them is the great guaranty for which 
governments are constituted. The first object of 
a government should be to convince the people 
that this guaranty is permanent and certain. 
Laws which fluctuate are fatal to popular pros¬ 
perity, while such as bear hardly upon any class, 
however small, though they promote the absolute 
wishes of the rest, will be unwise, and become 
oppressive in the end to the whole; for it is in * 


all such cases the nature of ministers to increase, 
in proportion to the increasing desire of majorities 
to extend their sway over greater numbers. The 
display of national splendor, or private opulence, 
is seldom a sure proof of national prosperity. 
The bankrupt makes his most extraordinary 
displays of profligacy just before his open failure; 
and there i9 no moral filth more shocking than 
that which imperial trappings are employed to 
conceal. Remarking to a pupil the various 
transactions which had taken place, within a 
short period, in and about Athens, a venerable 
sage of that city compared its condition, while it 
was wanting in those monuments of splendor 
which had prefaced its overthrow, with the sub¬ 
sequent magnificence in which all people then 
indulged. He deplored the unfortunate character 
of the difference and predicted the result. A 
great display of wealth, can, in no country, be 
made by more than a very few ; and any struggle 
at this object on the part of the great body of a 
community is neither more nor less than a 
contest in crime foi the splendors of bankruptcy. 
He preferred to see, as we should, a country 
thickly scattered over with smiling aud culti¬ 
vated farms, even though, at the same time, the 
treasury of state or city remained empty,—since 
a people prosperous by means of labor can always 
meet the emergency, whatever form it may take, 
by which state or city is endangered. It is not 
so certain that state or city can help a dissolute 
people, who have yet to learn the first rudiments 
of industry. The noblest edifices in every 
country, are true hearts and strong hands, souls 
not debased by indigence, nor enervated by 
luxury. There will most certainly be found in 
every nation, where the government neither sub¬ 
jects them for its creatures, nor affords them an 
unwholesome example by its pomps, a people who 
will always have a filial love for the soil they cul¬ 
tivate, and for the government, which, protecting 
them from others, does not itself seek to oppress 
them I “ I would rather,” said the sage, “ see 
the national treasury for ever without a penny, 
than know that any worthy citizen stood hope¬ 
lessly in need of one.” 

IX. 

Your egotist is of three descriptions—he is 
your complacent, your complaining, or youT 
contemptuous egotist. The first class is a suffi¬ 
ciently common one and needs no particular 
description. He is your sniggering, simpering, 
lack-wit,—constant with hi9 smile, who, if he will 
not help, cannot hurt, and may escape harm on 
the score of his own harmlessness. The other 
two classes, though not equally common, are 


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174 


THE ISA, THE MIGHTY DEEP. 


sufficiently so in all conscience. Contemptuous 
egotism is always ready for a fight-—complaining 
egotism is always ready for a bribe. The former 
always fancies that the world is treading on his 
toes ; the other is always afflicted, lest the world 
should not see when he puts them down. I have 
an acquaintance, who, before dinner, is the first 
character in perfection,—after dinner, the last. 
He unites the species. Meet him before he gets 
to his chop-house, and his acknowledgment of 
your “ God den,” is a sort of defiance. After his 
steak is discussed, he moves your bowels, if they 
be at all given to compassion, to hearken to the 
narrative of distresses which trouble his. The 
whole world has gone wrong with him—all the 
world are in a league to persecute him, and the 
only assurance you have that he will not throw 
himself into the river, is, the consoling conviction 
that you feel, all the while, that, let the world 
treat him as it will, he is a person who can never 
dispense with himself. His self-love, alone, 
keeps the world from losing that which it could 
—very well afford to lose. 

x. 

One of the great but secret causes of human 
failure and perversion, is the reluctance of men to 
abide by their instincts. The pride of intellect 
will not suffer itself to refer to any other authority 
than reason, and we begin the work of self¬ 
sophistication on the very threshold of existence. 
Of the simplest pursuits we continue to fashion 
mysteries—of the simplest arts, sciences ;—and 
the very things of which nature would seem to 
require of us the immediate personal per¬ 
formance, we strangely enough defer to a special 
and foreign faculty. What more completely our 
own province than our own food, our own rights, 
our health, and our religion ?—yet all these con¬ 
cerns which can be attended to by nobody half so 
properly or profitably as ourselves, we studiously 
put out of our own control. Hence, our lawyer 
can give us the most complicated and admirable 
laws,—but no justice;—our doctor, the most 
variously compounded medicines, but no cure; 
—our priest, the utmost variety of doctrines, but 
no religion—certainly, no safety. Even the 
farmer, sophisticating like the rest, in his 
ambition to make a science of his art, seldom 
succeeds in making a crop. Yet, it is very 
certain that nothing in this world is so easy of 
attainment—if we will only try for ourselves, 
with common honesty and diligence—as food, 
health, justice and religion. The things most 
essential of all, not only to the health and happi¬ 
ness, but to the absolute safety of man, were 
never meant by the Deity to be withdrawn from 


his immediate individual control; and man will 
never know one or the other, ’till he resumes all 
the privileges he has so blindly parted with. It 
seems to be clear, that, among his personal 
duties are these: he must earn his own bread, 
learn his own bodily condition—what is its meat 
and what is its poison—farm bis own lands, and 
carry on his own intercourse with heaven, to the 
employment of as few intermediate agents as 
possible. Individuality, and hence, individual 
responsibility, is the grand feature which distin¬ 
guishes man from every other animal. 


Orifioal. 

THE SEA, THE MIGHTY DEEP. 


BY JOHN C. M’CABE, M. D. 


“ The sea! the sea! the open sea!” 

Barry Cornwall. 

Oh, had I my wish, in my pride I would be, 

A wild careless rover upon the wide sea; 

Oh, the glorious sea, with the proud, dashing foam, 
Should be to the wanderer his fearless baique’s home. 

What though storm and tempest should sweep in their 
wroth 

| On the waves of the deep; and along my wild path, 

The fierce hissing lightnings like serpents should twine, 
And the phosphoric billows should gloomily shine— 

Yet away, yet away over breaker and wave, 

I would heedlessly dash, and their rude dangers brave; 
Each feeling of fear in my bosom should sleep, 

As proudly my barque cut her way through the deep. 

Huzza, for the sea! the all glorious sea, 

Its might is so wondrous, its spirit so free! 

And its billows beat time to each pulse of my soul, 

Which impatient, like them, cannot yield to control. 

Oh! let me when dying, but know that the wave, 

Is rolling along from its deep coal cave 

To bear my lone corpse to its bed in the deep ;— 

How calmly my spirit would hush it to sleep! 

Then down through the glassy, the billowy sea, 

My corpse shall be borne; and the wild minstrelsy 
Of dirge-chanting billows around me should break, 

And from caves of old Ocean strange echoes should wake. 

Oh! who would not live on the Ocean so wide, 

When its billows look bright as the smile of a bride ? 

And who would not glory, his vigils to keep, 

With the stars o’er his head, and around him— the deep ! 

'Twas my cradle in childhood, that ocean so proud, 

And in death let me have its bright waves for my shroud; 
Let no sad tears be shed when I dio, over me, 

But bury me deep in the sea,—in the sea! 

Norfolk, Va., 1844. 


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POESY 


175 


Original. 

POESY. 


BT E. DELAF1ELD SMITH. 


There is a spirit, in the twilight hour, 

Breath’d from above, where angels shadowy gleam; 
Or from the earth—the fragrance of the flow’r— 
Beauty—the genius of the mystic stream— 

Music, that haunts the greenwood and the gale,— 

A Bpirit of enchantment: and her veil 
O’er Eden playing. Twilight gently wove 
O’er our first parents in their bower of love. 

Of life-like rapture warmer was the gush, 

More lofty thought, and deeper Beauty’s blush. 

Gaze on each brow ! How vivid Feeling darts 
Her rays all sun-like, from their cloudless hearts! 
Yet why their silence 7 Vain is Feeling’s strife 
In modes of vulgar speech to rush to life, 

’Till, from the bosom’s mystic depths, allur’d 
By the pure charm o’er Eden’s bow’r, that plays, 
That feeling sprang, and now no more immur'd, 
The new-born language form’d the Poet’s lays. 

As from the bosom of the silvery sea 
Yielding her figure to the zephyrs’ care, 

Reveal’d in vapors of soft mystery, 

Rose Cithersea—all divinely fair; 

Thus from the bosom of extatic feeling, 

Yielding her figure to the muses’ sway, 

In tones melodious—well her form revealing— 

Lo, Poest rising to the light of day! 

Spirit of Song ! alike the soul, believed 
To have descended from the lands Elysian, 

By mind begotten, and by heart conceived, 

Bom to the world to charm the mental vision; 

To thy pure spirit, native are the skies, 

Eden the birth-place of thy lovely form,— 

Charm’d by the twilight hour of paradise, 

There first embodied from the bosom warm; 

Yet, as the spirit of a noble thought. 

Breath’d into figure—an ethereal flame— 

By varied minds, in varied ages caught; 

So thou, oh, spirit! ever art the same: 

To thee, in eastern or in western clime, 

Bodied in gentler or in ruder days,— 

To thee, I pour the oblation of my rhyme, 

For thee, sweet spirit! build my lowly lays. 

That thy bright history I may picture well, 

Bow truant Fancy ’neath the wand of Will; 
Weave o’er my soul thy soft, mysterious spell— 
Deep in mine heart, thy magic powers instil! 

How oft our parents in poetic lays 
Low breath’d of love or chanted hymns of praise ! 
And may we not believe it true, that Thought 
This new-born language for expression sought, 
When the pure pair held commune with Him— 
Their holy God, and with the seraphim 7 


But cease, ye. chords, that breathe a p«pan gay 
In Sorrow’s ear, like mockery, that rings ! 

As sunless vapors, now a graver lay 

Rise from the chang’d and sorrow-stricken strings! 
Woman ! Too trusting, and alas, betrayed! 

Ah, thou wert victim to that confidence 
Which made thee lovely! and from Eden’s shade 
Wert driven—weeping—with thy consort thence, 

And all thy spirit guardians spread their wings and fled— 
But Hope—that wept—yet tunny tear-drops shed, 

W ben sprang, as from the earth-bedewing sliow’r, 

O’er life’s dark path, full many a lovely flow’r. 

Then as, beneath the starry beams that eloquently smil’d, 
Upon the lovely Mary’s breast, appear’d Jehovah's child, 
So ’neath the light of Feeling’s ray, to earth again was 
giv’n— 

Upon the lap of Nature nurs’d, the Poetry of Heav’n. 

She might have come or soon or late, again to bless the 
earth, 

She might, before the watei's scourge, have own’d her 
second birth, 

And with her own lov’d Solitude, in some secluded lair, 
Sweet breathing o’er the speaking lyre, have liv'd a 
hermit there; 

For not the voice of History, and none of Fancy’s scheming, 
Hath told a tale of Poetry ’till ’mid the Chosen gleaming. 

Then hail to Judea! the land bright in story, 

Where Poesy shone in the morn of her glory ! 

Where the God of Sabaoth in musical lays, 

Breath’d divine inspiration and lur’d us to praise ! 

Where the God of Sabaoth cherish’d Poesy’s spirit 
To tell—like our Lord—of the Hcav’n we inherit! 

Where the prophet, whose soul gain’d its vision from high, 
Unveil’d the dark future of earth and of sky; 

Where touch’d by the light wand of Poetry, spoke 
Of pow’r and of plenty, the flock and the oak ; 

Where Lebanon, Carmel, fair mountains of old, 

Of glory, of excellence, eloquent told : 

Where the down of the thistle, the chaff of the field, 

The figure of worthlessness, boldly reveal'd; 

Where the rose and the lily, the stream and the show'r, 
Told of beauty and freshness in joy’s rosy hour, 

When the spring in the desert, like bliss in the breast, 
Leapt up in its fulness and sadness was blest; 

Where the lowly pnreh’d land held the mirror to wo,— 
And calamity sprang from the torrent's rude flow. 

Such the figures of Nature—luxurious throng— 

That rose to the voice of the spirit of Song, 

When in Judah she sang to the praise of her God, 

To his “people’s” deliverance, when the magical rod 
Was stretch’d o’er the foam of the path-yielding sea, 
Whose billows were chain'd ’till the Chosen were free. 
As back roll’d the breakers proclaiming the cry 
Of triumph—the knell of the vanquished—on high, 

From the heart of the prophet, rose the g ad paan there, 
’Twas Poetry bodied in Gratitude’s prayer! 

Then hail to Judea! the land bright in stoiy, 

Where Poesy shone in the morn of her glory! 


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176 


TO E S Y. 


Ages roll on: by foster mother nurs'd, 

Lo, Song in Hellas, breathes amid the frei ! 

Fair land! from whose heroic bosom, first 
She drew the element of majesty, 

The bold yet plaintive fervor of the lute 
Of old Judea, slowly melts away, 

Mingling with thine its final breath, 'till mute, 

It softly dieth in thy graver lay. 

For fair Apollo and Amphion, gi v’n 
By Hermes once, the magic lyre of Heav’n, 

And for Musaeus hymn'd in story long, 

Gracia hath claim’d the parentage of Song. 

Her birth ascrib'd to Deity, below 

Her spirit breath’d in Orpheus' music flow, 

O'er Nature's scenes, a magic spell he wound, 

And loos'd the souls that tyrant Death had bound. 

Hail to Aonia! where the muses long 
As vestal virgins, nurs’d the fire of Song, 

And to the bard that climb’d their classic mount. 
Bestow’d of Castalie—the mystic fount. 

There hath reclin’d great Homer's form divine, 

There gay Anacreon who, in rosy wine, 

Drown'd Care—the tyrant—jesting o’er her death ! 
There grew a Pindar’s ever blooming wreath ; 

’Till Ocean quench’d her passion-kindled flame, 

There rose its incense to a Sappho’s fame. 

In Gracia's clime, the Poet first relined— 

Honor’d and lov’d—the genius of mankind. 

From Poesy's lips, and in her language, fell 
The mystic breathings of the Oracle, 

And Poesy’s spirit with unbounded thrall, 

Like Beauty, rul'd and sweetly chasten’d all. 

Yet not alone was Gracia proudly bright— 

Rome hail’d the advent of poetic light! 

In the Eternal City, grew the wreath 
Of fair Calliope, on Maro's brow, 

And Erato was wont to softly breathe 
On the Venusian's lovely “ Lyric flow." 

Full many a bard in great Rome sang of old; 

Full many a bard in crush'd Rome lingers yet. 

But ah, the last are wnxing still and cold— 

Sad subject for the Poet's deep regret! 

Yet in the dimness of the mouldering hall, 

Breathes her pure spirit—eloquently mute; 

Or pours her influence in the notes that fall 

From peasant—murmuring to his mournful lute. 

Then on the world of letters, (ell a dark and dreary night, 
Yet Poetry through the cloud reveal'd her ever constant 
light: 

Her spirit in old Scythia breath'd the mystic Runic rhyme, 
Where hallow'd with Divinity, the Runer sway’d the clime! 
To Scandinavia's varied lands, to Germany, away! 

And list the Poet-monarch's song—the Scalder’s fervid lay. 
A learn'd and gentle mind within, without, the robe of blue, 
Behold amid the Celtic tribes, the minstrel meets the view, 
Who chronicled aflairs of state, in melodies defining 
The lineaments of sacred Truth through vapory Fiction 
shining: 


j How should we cherish Poetry, whosespirit thus reveal'd 
The history of the olden time, that else had sunk cooceal'd! 

And as in wild America, rose Poesy’s spirit there, 

To kindle Valor’s fervid flame, or triumph to declare, 
Lamenting 'neath theheavy hand, the tyrant frown, ofdeath. 
Living in Friendship's hallow’d vow and Love's delusive 
breath. 

Freedom, the goddess of the sky, in Song an Iris knew, 
Who with her mandate and her spell, lo! to the moun¬ 
tains flew, 

When hearts awoke to liberty and loos'd their tyrant chain, 
'Till Edward bade the minstrels die—'till Poetry was slain. 

'Twas she that breath’d from shore to shore, 
The sweet traditionary lore; 

'Twas she o'er Albion, Provence, 

The Emerald Isle, the ** North Countrie,"— 
That told the tales of gay romance, 

The daring deeds of chivalry. 

'Twas she with knight, to holy war, 

To Moslem regions, sped away, 

Or breathing o'er the light guitar, 

To lady wove the tender lay— 

When lover long and bravely strove, 

Ere he embrac'd his hard-won love, 

So he would gain the muse's kiss, 

Must brave the toils that circle bliss. 


Then—then—she pour’d her wildest lays! 
Those were indeed her golden days! 

She smil’d away the gloom that well 
Reveal’d the sun, we oft forget, 

Because no mists of morning tell 
The sire of light is lingering yet. 


J Ay, late have been, beneath the deep blue dyes 
Of the Italian heav'n, the laureate four, 

To woo her spirit from her native skies, 

Down to the arbors of that rosy shore: 

And there have been inGermany —sweet clime.— 
Full many a bard to weave her mystic rhyme: 

Gaily she warbles, as in other days, 

O’er vine-wreath’d France; and long her pensive lays 
From the Green Isle have echo’d: she hath flown 
With sister spirits, o’er the Highlands free, 

Lending her magic influence to the tone 
Of many a lyre of Scottish melody : 

Long in old England proudly she hath shone. 

The learn’d, the noble, kneeling at her throne; 

And in this clime of freedom, lo, the flame 
The savage kindled, slowly swells to Fame! 

Sister of liberty! Here should'st tbou die t 
With freedom nurs’d, with freedom breath’d from bight 


One spirit and one essence long 
Dwelt Poetry and Music—Song; 

'Till parting like the cloud of heav'n, 

The ties that closely bound it riv'n, 

Still round each new form, gently plays 
A radiance of varied dies, 

Which each to each a truant, strays, 
'Till both seem mingling in the skies. 


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POESY 


177 


Theirs is a soft affinity— 

Nay, they are one, for Poetry 
Retains the charm of melody, 

And Music—list th’ /Eolian lyre 
As, flitting o’er the quivering strings, 

Zephyrs in mimicry expire, 

Or gaily move their filmy wings : 

Think ye that sound could fascinate 
The heart it cannot penetrate ? 

Nay : *tis not sound that weaves the spell, 

For spirits in the breezes sigh, 

And whispering o’er the lute-strings, tell 
The legends of their native sky. 

Beneath their strange enchantment, lo, 

Dawn the sweet smile—the tear-drop flow— 
That linger on the dreamer’s brow', 

When yet the mystic spell is not, 
Remember’d well the Music, though 
The Poetry forgot! 

The Poetry of music, known 

In each sweet concord, each diviner tone! 

’Mid words, o’er language, Poesy hath thrown 
Honied expressions, cherish’d for their grace, 
Their pow’r and beauty: like the flow’rets strown 
O’er the fair garden. Science loves to trace 
Their origin, their import, and to cull 
Sweet seeds—for memory—the beautiful. 

An Elfin Queen, with spirit-forms, ’tis hers 
To charm the bosoms of her worshippers. 

It is her influence breathing forth the spell— 

It is her language whispering to the heart 

From the fair forms o’er Nature’s face that dwell, 
The living canvass of the painter’s art; 

And from the still, majestic statue, lo, 

Her mystic accents to the spirit flow! 

Hers is the language of the stars—of heav’n— 
When their soft meanings to the world are giv’n: 
Hers is the language of the maiden’s eyes 
Glancing soft answers to the lover’s sighs :— 
Sweetly she murm’reth in the wizard thought 
By fancy’s pow r ’r, in rosy slumber, wrought: 

Gaily in joy she smileth, and in gloom, 

Weeps o’er the cold and desolating tomb. 

Trac’d by her finger, there th’ inscription tells 
Of those bright regions, where the spirit dwells, 
Where she shall hover o’er seraphic choirs, 
Suggesting music to their living lyres. 

Sweet, soothing spirit! from the bark of life, 

Lo, in mild majesty, thou mov’st at will 
O’er care’s rude billows, o’er the sea of strife, 

With the prophetic whisper—“ Peace, be still!” 
As breath the life,—in sorrow’s drooping hour 
*Tis thou revivest pleasure’s weakening pow’r.— 
No brow so fair—no smile so sweet as thine,— 
Come gentle Poesy! wilt thou deign be mine? 

Weil from thy flow’rs I love to seek perfume, 
And though no sweeter in my heart ’tis made, 

Yet many roses in their beauty bloom 
For bee may ne’er the honey’d nectar shed. 


Ay, bloom for me—and while on earth I love. 

Thou shalt be dear—yes doubly dear above, 

For when I think of that far-distant henv’n, 

To which my thoughts on fancy’s wing repair, 

I feel no joy can to my heart be giv’n 
To coldly mingle with the spirits there. 

What though I love them on this rosy earth, 

In beauty’s mirror, softly breathes their worth:— 

The burning world the broken mirror keeping— 
For naught of earth shall in the skies appear— 
With lovely friend, my soul were ever weeping, 

For true, if memory told me he was dear 
’Mid earthly scenes, ah, she would whisper too 
Of the fair form that I no more could view. 

I see the features, not the spirit here, 

Then can I recognize, to love it there? 

Not thus, sweet Poesy! vestments are not thiner 
That please, forbidden in the skies to shine; 

I’ve ever known thee as a gentle spirit— 

No form appeareth when my heart adores; 

Soul of the soul—an higher heav’n t’ inherit, 

Gently descending to th’ Elysian shores— 

There wiltthou dwell?—In death, assurance speak,— 
’Twill chase the shudder, tinge the pallid cheek,— 
There wilt thou dwell 1 Then teach me to preparer 
To brave the gloom of that mysterious sea:— 
Farewell to earth ! Adieu to earthly care! 

I’ll hang my harp upon the willow-tree— 

Banish each thought that whispers not of heav’n. 

So to her shores, my weary bark be driv’n. 

Thus—my harp on the willow, 

For angels to bear, 

I’ll away o’er the billow— 

Wilt thou meet me there! 

On—on—’till breathes o’er us 
The soft spirit-air, 

’Till wakes the light chorus. 

To welcome me there! 

I’ll away to the far land* 

Of a lonely retreat. 

Unheeding the garlands, 

Seraphs throw to my feet. 

I’ll away to the mountains, 

’Neath light shady bow’rs 
Where gush the glad fountains 
’Mid verdure and flow’rs. 

Sweet Poesy, meet me 

With the harp and with song l 
How gay and how fleetly 
Shall the hours flit along !— 

Then Death, should I fear thee— 

Thy dark ocean dread— 

When, Poetry! near thee 
My hours shall be sped T 
Nay! my harp on the willow 
For angels to bear, 

I’ll away o’er the billow,— 

But—meet thou mo there i 
N. Y. University , Nov. 8, 1843. 

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178 


THE LINK OF UNION. 


Original. 

THE LINK OF UNION, 

BETWEEN MIND AND MATTER.-AN ESSAY. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LAFITTE,” “KYD,” AND THE “ QUADROONS.” 

“ Materia uxorera duxit animnm aed vero— 

Sed causia raullis separatio veuitur num.” 

Leodims it anima. 

Having at a former period, written an article 
touching the obstacles that lie in the way of the 
popular reception of any new philosophical disco¬ 
very, and also endeavored to show that the existing 
prejudices against mesmerism, neither in the 
least degree affect its truth, nor indicate its final 
rejection from the sciences; we shall now endeavor 
to show that mesmerism infringes no established 
and universal law, but on the contrary throws 
light upon the obscure mysteries which envelope 
all the laws of nature and of mind. 

In contemplating ourselves, that is, our human 
organization as compounded of a body and of a 
mind, we discover that one is physical, tangible, 
sensible ; the other sentient, intangible and invisi¬ 
ble; that the visible is inferior to and controlled 
by the invisible, the existence and action of 
which are as apparent, as the being and motions 
of the visible. We discover that the body is the 
servaut of the mind, acts only by its command, 
and is subserviently obedient to its will. We 
discover that the seat or throne of the superior 
part of our being is the brain, from which ema¬ 
nate its will, and from which it promulgates 
its laws. Experience and science show us that 
the throne of this invisible mind is circled in the 
midst of the senses, the avenues to which it 
commands, and by means of which it holds 
intercourse with the external world; and by the 
intelligence which they afford, it directs and 
moves the noble physical machine within, 
which it inhabits. We see it command, and the 
hand is upraised, the eye-lid closed, the foot 
advanced—the action of obedience being simul¬ 
taneous with the command of the will. We 
discover all this, wonder at it, but withhold our 
investigation of the media power by which these 
wonderful phenomena are effected. We see 
that we will to move a finger, and that it is 
done ! But as we are accustomed to look upon 
this as a natural effect of the operation of the 
will, or wish of the mind, we barely admit it, 
and then cease further inquiry. 

There are men, however, fortunately for 
science, who are not satisfied with natural 
effects; who, instead of narrowly regarding them 
with the mass only in the light of “ the common 
places” of nature, are accustomed to look upon 


every action and motion in the physical universe, 
from the trembling of a leaf in the breeze to the 
majestic motion of the eagle, as he sails on ex¬ 
panded wings above the earth, as astonishing 
phenomena. Such men look with wonder and 
awe upon the pages of the great volume of 
nature and read a marvel in every line. Newton 
was such a man! Galileo was such a man l 
Every century produces such men. They are 
the pillars of science, and the intellectual links 
that connect material humanity with the un'in- 
carnated mind. Such men behold in the falling 
and uplifting of the eye lid, a wonder and a phe¬ 
nomenon that calls for scientific research into the 
cause that produces such an effect; an effect, 
simple only because familiar. Nevertheless, this 
little motion bolds in balance the great secret, for 
the key to which, metaphysical philosophers in 
all ages have been in search, viz : the mode by 
which mind acts upon matter. " 

Now let us take up this investigation and look 
into it as men of such philosophical minds would 
do; for the service before us, mesmerism depends 
upon the results of such researches for its proof 
and for it truth : let us look into it fairly, impar¬ 
tially and plainly, like honest philosophers, and 
if there be truth lying in the bottom of this well, 
we shall be able to draw it out, and holding it to 
the light of science, see whether it be a pebble or 
a gem. As the first object of this research into 
ourselves, let us examine into the movements of 
our eye-lids. 

We will to close them and they fall. We will 
to open them and they obey. After repeating the 
experiment several times with careful, reflecting 
thought, we are satisfied that the motion is pro¬ 
duced by the will of the mind. But how? We 
well know, for the science of anatomy teaches 
it, that the lids rise and fall thtough the instru¬ 
mentality of certain nerves and muscles cun¬ 
ningly constructed, and ingeniously arranged for 
the purpose; but no where have anatomists 
shown us that these muscles are carried to, and 
attached to the will, or mind that moves them. 
No anatomist has ever yet discovered the invisible 
power which controls these sensitive wires; yet he 
has discovered their terminus to be in the brain, 
the seat and throne of the mind. The irresistible 
inference then is, that it is the brain which 6ets 
in motion the nerves and muscles. But reason 
rejects this conclusion, for we know that the 
body is governed by the mind, which is a spirit, 
and the mind alone; and to admit that the brain 
gives impetus and motion to all the nerves termi¬ 
nating and proceeding from it, would be to con¬ 
cede that man is merely an animal, his brain 


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'the link of union. 


179 


possessing vitality only through the circulation 
of the blood, and that, when this stopped, the 
brain perishes and man ceases to be! This 
conclusion none but a fool or a materialist would 
admit. The inference then is, that these nerves 
are set in motion by the invisible or intangible 
“ mind,” which has its seat within the brain, 
although they show no visible attachment to it. 
We thus conclude that there exists an invisible 
media between the nerves and the will—for no 
effect can be produced without contact or motion. 
Here is no contact: there must therefore be 
motion. This motion must exist in a fluid 
which the will controls. In what way our spirit 
is incorporate we cannot tell; but that its being 
is in a fluid, invisible and intangible, is pro¬ 
bable. The existence of a most subtle fluid 
permeating all substances, science has proven. 
The fluid emanating from a magnet is so rare 
and subtile, that it will pass through plate glass 
without any resistance or diminution of its force, 
and lose so little of its power as to turn a mag¬ 
netic needle beyond the glass ! The existence 
of the subtlest fluids is established; and that of 
electricity is so generally admitted that not even 
the vulgar doubt, though they cannot see it. From 
the grosser fluids, atmospheric air, ether, and 
flame to electricety, and the magnetic (metal) 
effluvia or fluid, there is a progressive series of 
steps regulated with beautiful order. Vision 
and hearing are discovered to be the effects of 
aerial vibrations not of the atmospheric air, but of 
a subtler fluid permeating it, and conveying sen¬ 
sation to the nerves of the brain as the undula¬ 
tions of the wind convey motion to the leaves of 
the trees. The mind which receives and under¬ 
stands these sensations, must therefore exist in 
the same fluid in which the nerves act; for the 
same medium which conveys sensations from 
without to the nerves of the brain by its undula¬ 
tions, must necessarily be continued through the 
nerves, to communicate these sensations to the 
mind. 'The mind, therefore, receives all its 
impressions by a fluid which the nerves set in 
motion; that is, its communication with the braiD 
and the nerves, is carried on by the medium of a 
fluid, intangible, invisible, and, so subtle as 
to constitute the link that unites the material 
with the immaterial matter with spirit l 

If the mind— that invisible, spiritual, sentient, 
which wills— is intellective through the nerves 
by means of the nerves of the brain agitated from 
without, setting in motion a fluid the vibrations 
of which terminate in the mind, it also must 
convey its own intelligent, independent workings 
by the same subtle medium to the brain* Let 
20 


jl us be understood. If an island can receive its 
I importations only by medium of the sea, it must 
1 export by the same medium. If the mind 
receive its series of knowledges of external 
things by medium of a fluid, it must emanate 
itself by the same medium. That it does derive 
its impressions by the vibrations of such a fluid, 
is philosophically true; that it conveys them by 
the vibrations of the same fluid to the parts of the 
body it would move by the media of the organs 
of the brain which are marshalled like couriers 
around it, remains to be proven. The deduction 
of reason and the inference of analogy would 
lead us to believe that it does; and it will be 
readily admitted that whatsoever science furnishes 
proof of this, will be a sound and important one. 
Mesmerism alone has famished these proofs; 
and as its claim to rank with the sciences rests 
upon the existence and action of such a fluid, if 
it doe9 not exist her pretensions fall to the 
ground. Without sflch a fluid, what is mesme¬ 
rism could not be. If the medium assumed to 
be do not exist, then is nervic magnetism a most 
singular delusion ; but if it do exist, mesmerism 
!| has established itself among the first discoveries 
lj of the age, and given a key to unlock the mystic 
union of mind and matter. 

Mesmerism proves, we have said, the existence 
of this subtle fluid of the brain; but if we are 
asked to prove it, we reply that mesmerism proves 
it not to me ; that it is not susceptible of proof, 
except by mesmerism. The philosopher will 
understand our meaning. He and the general 
reader must be willing to admit that the fluid 
exists ’till its existence be proved to him by the 
kind of testimony mesmerism itself will offer. 

The brain, then, is charged with a subtle fluid, 
Iso fine and delicate as to be agitated by the 
motion of thought in the mind, which, as it 
were, floats in it—a spirit in ether. This fluid is 
the highest link in material essences, and the 
lowest in spiritual; so that it is easily influenced 
| by the vibrations coming from matter on the one 
hand, and the motions of mind and spirit on the 
other. It is this medium by which the mind of 
man holds its union with his body, the bond 
whereby spirit is wedded to matter. The first 
and oighest matter with which the incorporate 
mind comes in contact, is the nerve of the brain f 
which it excites, not by direct contact, but by 
the intervention of the fluid medium of sensation f 
which we have described. These nerves, or 
organs of sensation, pass from the brain to all 
parts of the body. An act of the will sets them 
m motion. It is the will, therefore, that moves 
matter! The will, for instance, %cills that the 


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180 


THE LINK OF UNION. 


eye-lids should close. How is the effect pro¬ 
duced, inasmuch as the will has no command 
over the muscles independent of the media of 
the nerves and their intermediate fluid? We 
answer : the motion of thought agitates the fluid; 
the nerves catch the vibrations, conveying them i 
with the continuously exerted eflort of the will to j 
the nerves of the eye-lid. The energy of will [ 
the nerves have thus conveyed in the fluid, lifts 
the muscles and produces the effect intended by 
the will. Thus is a finger to be moved! an arm 
to be raised ! the leg to be advanced ! the whole 
body to be set in motion ! The will to produce 
these effects by its own motion to act, agitates 
the medium fluid ; the undulations are commu¬ 
nicated to the nerves, and along them with the 
rapidity of thought (for it is nothing else,) to the 
part desired to be acted upon, and the effect is 
simultaneous with the will. The nerves then 
conduct the fluid with which the will comes in 
contact, and consequently convey a portion of 1 
the will; for so long as the fluid acts, the mind 
must act in it and through it. The nerves, 
therefore, are no part of the muscular machinery 
for moving positions of the body, but conductors I 
of the will to the parts, which, by its energy are 
put in motion. Consequently the nerves are 
there more or less numerous iu proportion to the 
weight of matter upon which the will-charged 
nervous fluid has to act. 

Hence it appears that the brain, although the 
terminus of the nerves, instead of being the 
cause of motion and action, is but the instrument 
of a thinking spirit that dwells within it, sur¬ 
rounded by a subtle essence, which links him to 
matter, aud by the medium of which he acts 
upon the brain. This is the mesmeric theory in 
its latest and highest developments. We have 
endeavored to give it in language as clear aud 
explicit as a subject so subtle and metaphysical 
will admit of; not so much seeking to present it 
iu a philosophical shape as in a popular one. 

We will now glance at the manner in which 
mesmerism avails itself of this hypothetical 
medium, and also bow it exercises its peculiar 
functions upou the will and body, supposing this 
fluidal medium of sensation to exist. We have 
shown, adopting this theory, how the will moves 
matter—an eye-lid, au arm, a leg, the whole 
body !—that it moves it by a series of motion 
and not by contact, and we have shown how this 
motion originates in, and by an act of the mind, 
and by undulatory vibrations is communicated to 
matter. We assert that every healthy brain is 
charged with this active, sentient fluid, and that 
it is by the communication of the force of the 


will by means of it that a man moves his own 
body, and the parts of it as he wills, and whither 
he will. But we do further assert that man has 
the power of exerting an influence by his will, 
extraneous from himself,—without, or beyond 
his own bodily sphere ; that he can move matter 
which is not in contact with his nerves, by an 
effort or successive effort of his will; in fine, that 
he can exert his will over the nervous system of 
another person, as if it were identical with, and 
part and parcel of his own. 

This is a startling assertion. Let us examine 
it carefully and reflectingly, and we shall under¬ 
stand it, subtle and marvellous as it appears. It 
is well known that the two ends of a recently 
severed nerve, if held near together attract and 
cohere. This proves clearly the existence of 
attractive influence, either inherent in the nerve, 
or accidental. That it is not inherent in the 
substance, has been proven by the fact that after 
some time exposure, this attractive quality disap¬ 
pears : it must therefore be incidental, and tran¬ 
sient; and mesmeric philosophy very properly 
refers it to the invisible fluid of which it is 
the conductor. Subsequent experiments, have 
fully established the correctness of this hypo¬ 
thesis, and proven to the satisfaction of science 
I that a fluid not only exists, but that it is highly 
magnetic, and hence mesmeric philosophers 
have denominated it “magnetic fluid.” 

Its magnetic property having been clearly 
established, and the nerves fully ascertained to 
be the sentient matter upon which it acts, a dis¬ 
tinguished German physiesan and philosopher 
in 1768, commenced a course of interesting 
experiments, which fully proved to him, as he 
had anticipated, that the nervous system of an 
individual in a low state of health could be influ¬ 
enced by the vigorous nervous power emanating 
from that of a healthy person; and that through 
the eye was the outlet of the brain through which 
the surplus nervous fluid of the healthy brain 
j escaped, if forced by the will! He ascertained 
the eye powerfully energized by the will, if 
directed to the brain of the other, changed the 
whole action of that brain so that it turned, as it 
were, away from the avenues to its own senses, 
closing them to the external world and presented 
itself like “ the sun-flower to the sun,” to receive 
jl sensation, life, light, thought and motion from 
'| the stronger will of the other, which for the time 
j| being controlled its own peculiar medium of sen- 
i| sation and will. He discovered that the person 
j! influenced by him in these experiments, no 
| longer used her own senses, but his !—that she 
" felt, thought, tasted, moved, spoke, wept, laughed, 


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AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


181 


and suffered with him! Astounded with these 
discoveries, he communicated them to two of his 
friends, one of whom was the celebrated Dr. 
Mesmer. It is already well known what use 
this acute man made of this discovery; one of 
the most extraordinary of the age or of the 
world, and destined to be productive of the most 
important results to mankind. 


Orif ioal. 

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF 
MRS. LOUISA A. HENRY. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO THE REV. M. HENRY, A. B. 

Thou hast laid withiu the cold dark grave the beautiful 
and just. 

And heard the low sad knell which gives to dust its 
kindred dust; 

Thou hast yielded up thy loved one, with a grief we may 
not toll. 

And thy heart hath nearly broken, with that last, that sad 
farewell! 

Thou wilt miss thy gentle one at eve, when stars are in 
the sky; 

For every bright, and kindling orb, will ’mind thee of 
that eye 

So purely bright, when joy was there, in all its flashing 
light, 

Or when tear-gemmed, so beautiful in its sorrow’s shad- 
dowy night. 

Thou wilt miss her at that hour when at the social hearth, 

Yc kneel in social prayer; for the memory of her worth, 

Shall come across affect on’s waste,—not indistinct, and 
dim, 

For that voice,—oh! how in fancy’s ear, ’twill raise 
devotion’s hymn! 

Yet why should agony usurp sweet resignation’s throne? 

Why should we weep our loved ones gone,—yet not for 
ever gone? 

Why should the fountains of our grief, burst from each 
tortured breast? 

The wicked cannot harm her now, thy wearied dove’s at 
rest! 

The evening winds will play around her quiet grass- 
grown grave, 

And the drooping boughs of forest-trees above that green 
mound wave; 

But she, thy loved, thy gentle one, would calm thine 
anguish’d weeping, 

For her spirit now is with its God; and the body—only 
sleeping. 

From her bright sphere beyond the skies, thy gentle one 
now calls, 

And her smile throws down a gleam of bliss upon each 
tree that falls; 

With beckoning hand she bids thee come to that all 
blissful shore, 

Where the loved and lost shall re-unite—to part? oh ! never 

more. john c. m’cabe, m. d. 


I Orifin.l. 

j AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA; 

OR, AN OLD MAN’S STORY. 


41 Not hoary hairs nor forty years. 

Nor moments between nipli* and tears; 

Can muke iny thoughts or fancy flee 
One moment, my sweet wile from thee.” 

Cunningham 

44 How it pours!” said Mr. St. Aubyn, as, 
drawing his chair closer to a blazing fire, he lis¬ 
tened to the rain falling in torrents, which a high 
wind blew with great violence against the unshel¬ 
tered house; and caused to patter against the 
windows, as though it would break them in with 
every gust. It was indeed a fearful night, and 
the large frame building occupied by the gentle¬ 
man above named, rocked and creaked like a ship 
in a storm. 

It stood alone; and at the time to which my 
tale refers, was about a mile from Broadway; but 
long since has it been joined to that gay prome¬ 
nade, and many a fine row of houses flanks above 
and below, what was then considered, an almost 
country-house. It stood a little in from the 
road, with a beautiful garden in front, well 
stocked with flowers of every kind, and laid out 
in English style. The taste, and attention mani¬ 
fested in the bestowal of every thing about It 
would have led an observer to imagine that it was 
superintended (in its direction,) by a female hand; 
but the supposition would have been erroneous. 
The owner of that mansion was an elderly gen¬ 
tleman, considerably in the vale of years ; and his 
only company beside the servants, was a nephew, 
whom he had brought up, and who had now 
reached his twenty-seventh year. 

Mr. St. Aubyn, the old gentleman’s name, was 
an Englishman by birth, and a younger son of a 
Baronet of that name. 

At the death of his father, finding himself pos¬ 
sessed of but a scanty portion, the landed pro¬ 
perty devolving entirely on his eldest brother by 
heirship, he resolved to emigrate to the Western 
world, and try his fortune in some line of mer¬ 
chandize, To this end he came to New-York, 
established himself soon after in business, mar¬ 
ried, and, as the phrase goes, settled down with 
every prospect of prosperity and happiness smiling 
gaily before him. 

Many a year had rolled over the head of the 
now venerable old man, since the time above 
referred to; and many changes and vicissitudes 
had he seen;—many a sorrow known. And 
seated in his easy chair, his gouty foot swathed 
in flannels, resting on the velvet-cushioned stool; 


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182 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


between the howlings of the storm, many a I 
thought of by-gone days presents itself; some of 
bitter, some of pleasant memory; but the sound of 
carriage-wheels, arrests his ear, and listening with 
deep absorbed attention, footsteps are heard 
coming up the garden. In another moment, the 
hall door is opened, ar d the solitude of that 
lonely parlor is broken by the entrance of his 
nephew, now the only delight and joy of that old 
naan’s existence. 

“Ah, Edward,” exclaimed Mr. St. Aubyn, as 
he entered, “ you are come at last, then. Oh, 
how glad I shall be when you are married ; and 
when your wife’s society will supply to you at 
home, that amusement you are constantly seeking 
abroad ; but I expect, finding not.” 

The young man smiled, as he drew near the fire, 
and taking a chair opposite his venerable uncle, 
began making inquiries of how he had been since 
he had left him, and if he had expected him that 
etormy night. 

“ Oh, yes, Edward, I expected you; for in our 
eld comfortable close carriage, which I ordered 
be in waiting for you, drawn by two as fine 
horses as ever crossed the road, there is little to 
feel from any weather. Knowing, too, what a 
.desolate dwelling our house is, I should think it 
as I have always told you, one of the greatest 
cruelties you could inflict, to stay away over 
night. The day, and that part of the night you 
are usually absent, is dreary enough for me to 
bear, without this addition; and indeed, could 
hardly be borne, if I did not look forward to 
your return before I went to bed, to hear some¬ 
thing in the shape of news; the sayings and 
doings of actual existence,—for my own, alas, is 
but a passive oneand he sighed. 

-“Dear uncle,” said the young man, “I often 
think how lonely you are out here, but what can I 
do ? You teH me I must not neglect my busiuess ; 
-—that you know, occupies me the whole of the 
day; and in the evening I am glad of something 
in the way of relaxation ;—so accept the invita- 
tio of some friend or other in town, to spend an 
hour or two, at their house ; where music, danc¬ 
ing, or amusement of some sort usually beguiles 
me, and it generally gets to be late ere I return. 
But you know I have another motive beside 
amusement in seeking the society of the gay and 
fashionable. *1 am searching for a wife,’ as you 
so often tell me how much happier our abode 
might be rendered if it was only conducted under 
the happy auspices of a wife.” 

“Ah, Edward, you have well said the happy 
auspices of a wife ; for there can be such a thing 
as miserable auspices, I assure you. But ear¬ 


nestly do I hope that ere long you will be fortu¬ 
nate enough to get one whose fairy fingers and 
gentle taste will render our home a little different 
to what it now is. For those untidy servants, 
get what number one may, annoy me beyond 
every thing. I am perpetually scolding and 
telling them how to do things, but all to no 
purpose; still my only resource is to ‘sit like 
patience on a monument, smiling at grief,' while 
beholding every thing done the wrong way ; the 
house in a state of confusion and disorder, from 
base to roof, and my victuals at every meal 
literally spoiled by their abominable mode of 
cooking.” 

| “ A heavy list of grievances, indeed, dear 

uncle,” was Edward’s reply, and he paused; 
then continuing said, “ but things do not appear 
to me in this light; every thing about this room 
for instance, looks very nice. Tables and chaira 
nicely polished ; the sofa just in the right place; 
this beautiful imperial carpeting looking as if it 
I was quite new, so bright with cleanliness; and 
I the portrait and mirror-frames shining as if a 
single dust even had never settled upon them.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the old gentleman, pettishly, 
“ these things look well enough to you, who 
never see them but in the night; but seen in the 
bright daylight, they present a very different 
aspect, I assure you ; and I hope the day is not very 
distant when Cupid will wing an arrow at your 
hitherto invulnerable heart; and in giving you a 
wife give me also a daughter, whose presence 
will impart something in the shape of comfort to 
this at present cheerless aDd desolate house.” 

“ Why, uncle, I never heard you talk thus 
despondingly before; the gloominess of the 
weather, perhaps is . the cause, and being 
perhaps, so much alone. I will try to come 
home earlier in future, and render if I can, your 
desolate home as you term it, less irksome and 
solitary to you.” 

“ This is an old promise, Edward ; however, I 
must not talk so like a crabbed old man, as I am; 
but confined in my gouty chair, the whole of 
each livelong day, without seeing or hearing a 
soul that cares for me, it is little to be wondered 
at, especially when I contrast the past with the 
present. Ah, life was not always thus barren of 
enjoyment to me. The gentle tones of affection 
once rung constantly in my cars, and the smile 
of tender and devoted love, greeted me as duly 
and untiringly as the glorious sun rose to run his 
race, with the return of every added day to our 
blessed lives. But that sun which bathed mine 
existence in bliss unutterable, is set, alas, to rise 
no more in this world; but I shall meet her in 


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AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


183 


another and a brighter; and where I am fast, fast [ 
hastening. But ere that time arrives,”—clasping 
his helpless hand, and his eyes filling with tears,; 
—“I would see”—his voice faultering as he 
•poke,—“ I would see you blessed with a partner, | 
such as I once possessed,—such as once made | 
the walls of this old, and now to me solitary man- \ 
•ion, seem like the very portals of an earthly | 
paradise!”—and he paused, overcome with 
emotion. 

Edward Leslie (the young man’s name,) was ; 
also affected at this allusion to a separation, by i 
death from his revered and beloved uncle, and ! 
tears filled his eyes. He felt too, much com- j 
punctioo of heart, for leaving him so much alone.! 
But if his home seemed so solitary to him, what j 
charm could it possibly possess for one in the 
freshness and buoyancy of youth ? His uncle’s ! 
assertion had indeed been correct, that his j 
promise of being more at home was an old and ! 
an unfulfilled one. And as to bringing home a ' 
wife, he had seemed as far as ever from the nup- i 
tial state;—for out of the immense number of 
young ladies he continued to meet with from 
month to month and year to year, no one had 
ever yet been able to fit his roving fancy, or 
satisfy the fastidious seeker for perfection in every 
female grace and accomplishment, united in one j 
person, and where not even the shadow of imper- > 
fection could be tolerated in any thing. As for I 
example, she must possess perfect beauty of! 
person, and her form must be symmetry itself.' 
This to begin with. Then she must be perfect 
in every branch of female accomplishment. She 
must paint landscapes like Claude Lorraine; 
have a thorough knowledge of all the modern 
and ancient languages; play on the piano like 
Mozart; with a like knowledge of the harp and 
guitar; have a voice like a seraph, and compose 
the poetry of her own songs !—With such a list 
of requirements, my readers will not much 
wonder that Edward Leslie continued unsuitcd 
up to his twenty-seventh year, and that his uncle 
should feel as he did ; that a wish for his mar¬ 
riage was very little likely to be gratified, while 
he continued to harbor the thought of meeting 
with such absolute impossibilities. But youth 
is a season of visions; and they will have their 
day, in spite of the wisest advice, or the kindest | 
intentions of relatives, “speak they never so* 
wisely.” 

“ late, however,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, 

wiping his eyes, and putting his handkerchief into 
his pocket. 44 Ring foi Bryant, (his valet,) and 
let him wheel me into my little sanctum;”—a 
room adjoining the sitting parlor,-which, when 


unable to walk from an attack of gout, he usually 
occupied as a bed-room ; from its being on the 
same floor, and facilitating by that means, his 
removal into it by being wheeled in, in his easy 
chair by his faithful and attached servant, with¬ 
out much trouble or inconvenience on either 
side ; when compared to what it might have been 
had he slept up-stairs. 

41 Uncle,” said Edward, “you spoke just now 
of the happiness of the past; perhaps a relation 
of some of the incidents of your life might be 
very useful to me, especially in my present 
pursuit of a fireside companion. Cotne, uncle, 
promise to indulge me, for I am sure they cannot 
fail to be interesting.” 

“ Well, I will some time,” replied Mr. St. 
Aubyn, laconically. 

“ Some time, uncle, but why not say definitely 
when ?” said the young man. “ It is not now 
| very late, and I am on the qui vivt for a recital; 
ji> dear uncle oblige me.” 

; 14 No, Edward, not to-night; a chord has been 

! touched which has vibrated too deeply on the 
j feelings of my riven heart; and made its wounds 
< bleed too profusely, to admit of any further 
; recurrence to the past, now. But by to-morrow 
I perhaps I shall be able to overcome this weak- 
i ness, and if you are home early, I will give you 
* the history of my past life, at least that part of it 
which most nearly concerned my happiness. 
For it may, as you have said, be useful to you; 
and now ring the bell for Bryant.” 

“ Thank you, uncle,” rising to ring the bell. 
“ To-morrow evening then, I will be home at six 
o’clock, prepared to listen to an experience, I 
! am confident that will not only amuse, but 
j instruct me.” 

“ That will depend on its application,” Mr. St. 
Aubyn gravely replied. “But be true to your 
appointment, and I will be true to mine.” The 
servant here entering, Mr. St. Aubyn bade his 
nephew good night, and was wheeled into his 
bed-room. 

Edward Leslie was true to hi3 engagement on 
the following evening; in fact for the first time 
for many months, he was home early enough to 
join his uncle at his favorite meal—tea; and after 
chatting over that comfortable beverage, as Cow- 
per expresses it: 

*' Which cheers but oot inebriates,” 

the things being removed—and servants with¬ 
drawn—Mr. St. Aubyn drew, or rather wheeled 
his chair closer to the fire, as was his custom, 
coughed and hemmed, prefatorily—remained 
silent for a few moments—glanced at his nephew, 
who had assumed a listening aspect,—then 

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AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


throwing himself back, or inclining a little to the 
side of his easy-chair, and resting on the stuffed 
arm, he thus began :— 

“ Well, Edward, I promised you a narrative 
of some of the incidents of my past life to-uight; 
and as you have been as good as your word in 
coming home to bear your uncle company, you 
shall hear it. My father, I believe you are aware, 
was a baronet; he had two sons and four daugh¬ 
ters. My sisters all married young, and having 
their portions paid down on their wedding days; 
when my revered parent paid the debt of nature, I 
being the second son, there was little left to my 
share; the bulk, in short the whole landed pro¬ 
perty possessed by my father, descending accor¬ 
ding to the law of the land to my eldest brother; 
who with it also inherited the title of Sir Hugh 
St. Aubyn. 

I was twenty-three years of age when this 
event occurred, and the immeuse difference that 
now existed in my brother’s worldly possessions 
and my own, determined me to leave my native 
land, and seek that fortune abroad which I could 
have no chance of accumulating at home. With 
my scanty patrimony, therefore, I set out for the 
Western world, leaving my brother master of an 
estate which brought him more annually, than 
the whole amount of my portion. Such being 
the injustice practised towards younger sons: 
and yet under those uneqnal circumstances, it is 
not always either that they are brought up to any 
profession and business to supply the difference; 
a species of injustice I have ever regarded with 
feelings of the highest indignation. But to pass 
over what is termed a necessary evil for the pre¬ 
servation of the family dignity, I shall at once 
proceed to inform you of my safe arrival at New- 
York, then little more than a Dutch settlement, 
where I resolved to ensconce myself; and as 
soon as I could meet with a trusty and expe¬ 
rienced partner with a capital equal to my own, 
to commence business in good earnest; resolving 
that if attention and perseverance could achieve 
it, to become a rich man. For I had lived too 
long amid the appliances of wealth and station, 
not to be sensible of their value. A spice of envy 
at my brother’s superior fortune, it might be too, 
stimulated me in a great measure, my temper 
being naturally ambitious. 

“ I was fortunate enough to obtain a partner to 
my wishes; and about two years after my arrival 
in New-York, I found myself engaged in a busi¬ 
ness that promised me a rapid fortune, so I be¬ 
thought me of taking a wife. 

“ I have said my temper was naturally ambi¬ 
tious; and my tastes, though completely con¬ 


cealed beneath the exterior of a man of business, 
were extremely fastidious. My aristocratic de¬ 
scent too, gave great ideas of what I had a right 
to expect; and being reckoned handsome, I 
resolved to make an alliance if I did marry, that 
should do honor to my choice. My thriving for¬ 
tunes made me an object of great solicitude 
among the mothers and daughters of the worthy 
citizens of New-York. But the majority of those 
who regarded me so favorably, in the pride of 
birth, and other circumstances, I made no scruple 
to look down upon with the most unqualified 
contempt. My haughty bearing at length 
became manifest; and the handsome young 
Englishman, as his riches increased, lost much 
of bis former popularity. For pride, in a country 
where people sought to raise themselves by 
industry, whatever might be the cause that 
prompted it, was considered an offence, for which 
no other virtue or quality could compensate. 
But their praise or censure affected me very little. 
If indeed any thing, it was gratification at being 
regarded in what I considered my true light. I 
was glad they saw that I looked upon myself as 
being different to the plebeians with which I was 
surrounded, and I resolved when I commenced 
housekeeping, to live in a style suited to the rank 
of life to which I belonged, and to associate only 
with those whose lineage like my own could 
be traced to either some English or foreign 
i aristocratic origin. 

“ Time for some period fled on with little pros¬ 
pect of the secret wish of my heart being gratified: 
of forming a high and wealthy alliance ; and a9 
my own riches continued rapidly to pour in upon 
me, the desire increased daily. 

“At length chance favored my long cherished 
hopes; a high aristocratic French family of the 
name of Le Roux emigrated hither, and took up 
theirresidence in Broadway. They were reputed 
wealthy, of the highest respectability, and very 
highly educated. Their arrival created quite a 
sensation, and many were the suppositions con¬ 
cerning their reasons for coming hither. For 
their style of living indicated not only affluence, 
but profuseness ; and the grandeur of their move¬ 
ments seemed more suitable to a ducal palace, 
than to private citizens in a republican country. 

“This family consisted of the count and 
countess, and their children; one son and a 
daughter. The son about twenty-five, the 
daughter twenty-three years of age; they had a 
numerous retinue of servants, and kept two car¬ 
riages. In short, their style of living altogether 
was elegant in the extreme; and this grandeur 
and magnificence supported as it seemed to be, 


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A N ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA 


185 


without any known resources, naturally enough 
led people to imagine that they possessed un¬ 
bounded wealth. 

41 Not long after their arrival, they gave a 
splendid ball and supper to the most fashionable 
61ite of the city, to which were invited most of 
those who had called on them, embracing the 
chief public functionaries of New-York, with 
their ladies, and several residents of Washington, 
members of Congress, etc. 

41 It was a most splendid affair; and the gran¬ 
deur of the establishment, the hospitality of the 
host and hostess, the gentlemanly deportment of 
the son, were descanted on in terms almost 
beyond the powers of praise. But the chief 
attraction, of that evening of evenings in the 
chronicles of New-York, was the lovely daughter 
of Count Le Roux. She moved through the 
lofty rooms of their family mansion, like a being 
of another sphere. Her tall and commanding 
form, her graceful movements, her costly attire, 
her seraphic countenance, her soft gazelle eyes 
rivetted every eye upon her. Yet apparently 
all unconscious of her charms, her whole 
thoughts seemed occupied in conducing to the 
happiness of those around her. Never shall I 
forget, Edward, the intoxicating exstacy I expe¬ 
rienced on that eventful evening. 

44 Her father and mother had seen and been 
introduced to my family in England—had visited 
them, a little before their departure for America, 
—therefore this meeting with one who like her¬ 
self, she said, was an exile from Europe’s favored 
9oiI, she felt a source of enjoyment beyond what 
words could express, in my society. For to me 
she was speaking in a known tongue. Ob! 
Edward, how surpassingly beautiful, how exqui¬ 
sitely lovely she appeared when she said this. 
My heart was fairly bewitched—I have no other 
name for it; and we continued chatting away the 
delicious hours, remarking how time fled, and 
uncaring for aught but the entrancing happiness 
I flattered myself in believing, both experienced. 
Happy, blissful moments. But how deceitful 
were their promises! 

44 It U perhaps useless to inform you, that I 
returned to my lodgings with the conviction 
anchored deeply in my heart, that I had at last 
found in this hitherto uncongenial land, a 
kindred spirit. The being in short whom my 
soul had so long yearned to behold. A creature 
whom imagination had often painted, but which 
reality had failed to produce, ’till my eyes rested 
on the impersonation of all created loveliness in 
the person of Augusta Le Roux. Here was 
indeed, the wife I had so long desired; and if I 


should be fortunate enough to obtain her, I felt 
that earth would not own my compeer for hap¬ 
piness on all its broad surface. 

44 You smile at my by-gone enthusiasm, imagi- 
; ning no doubt, that a gouty old man could hardly 
ever have had such extravagant fancies. But 1 had, 
nevertheless; and, what is more, had them, as 
I then thought, completely realized.” 

44 1 did not smile on that account, uncle,” said 
Edward, “but to see how enthusiastically you 
could still feel on the subject.” 
i 44 Ah, well, never mind,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, 
44 let me go on ’till I get to the end, for bright as 
| it now seems, the subject is a weary one to me, 

I assure you. 

44 Of course, I resolved at once to become a suitor 
for her hand; and to this end, accepted, on leav¬ 
ing the house, the invitation tendered by all, 
j father, mother, brother, and her peerless self, to 
: visit them frequently. I allowed, however, two or 
three days to pass by, ere I beheld my charmer 
again, but when I commenced my friendly visits, 
i my reception was so excessively cordial, and an in¬ 
timacy seemed so much courted by all this charm¬ 
ing family, that each day, at length, found me 
a never failing intimate of their mansion, and if I 
had been so completely enchanted with the mere 
externals of my sweet enslaver, how much more 
was I delighted as she disclosed one by one, the 
i rich treasures of her accomplishments ! She 
played and sung with a sweetness and finish quite 
rare in these days, in our goodly city of New- 
York, and therefore, the more dearly prized. 
Then her paintings in oil and water colors 
were quite masterly. Indeed, before I was in¬ 
formed of it, as I admired several rich Italian 
landscapes on the wall, I imagined them to be 
the productions of the old masters in that branch 
of art. She was beside, a perfect mistress of 
French, Italian, and Spanish; played on the 
harp and guitar admirably, beside excelling in 
the nicknackery of boarding school trickery of 
making fire screens, Chinese work boxes, shell 
pincushions, embroidery and the like. Her con¬ 
versation, too, was the most fascinating I ever 
remember to have listened to, for she possessed 
in a rare degree that playfulness of manner, which 
distinguishes all her countrywomen. Having tra¬ 
velled a great deal with her parents, she had seen 
much, heard much, and observed with great at¬ 
tention whatever had come in her way. Such 
was Augusta Le Roux, and you, I dare say, for 
one, do not wonder much at my infatuation.” 

“Indeed, I do not, uncle,” said Edward, “and 
more than that, think you were a very fortunate 
and happy man.” 


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“ Ah, well,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, with a sigh, 
“at the time of which I speak, I was happy; but, 
to proceed; I soon made up my mind on the sub¬ 
ject, and resolved as soon as propriety admitted to 
make her an offer in due form of my hand, heart, 
and fortune. 

“Time, as a matter of course deepened my at¬ 
tachment, and at the expiration of six months 
from our first introduction to each other I made an 
avowal of my sentiments, and sued for a return. 

“ Her answer was every thing my fond heart de¬ 
sired, and with a happiness at heart which may 
be imagined, but not described, I commenced 
preparations for the reception of my bride in a 
home, suitable to the exalted ideas I entertained 
for her, and becoming equally our rank and for¬ 
tune. 

“ Of course we were to have a town and country 
residence, furnished in the most magnificent style, 
with equipages to correspond. All this I resolved 
on, without once thinking whether she had a dow¬ 
er or not; which by the by she had not. Indeed 
that was a matter of perfect indifference to me. 
My heart was satisfied to the full, in every parti¬ 
cular, and that sufficed. 

“ My resources being ample, all necessary prepa¬ 
rations were soon completed, and the wedding 
day fixed. Oh, Edward, how exquisite was my 
happiness ! my present and future seemed to my 
enraptured view to be one continued scene of en¬ 
chantment—the joys of paradise could alone ex¬ 
press my exstatic thought, for not a cloud ob¬ 
scured the brightness of my mind's horizon; not 
a shadow rested on the sun-dial that so temptingly 
emblazoned on its shining surface, a destiny which 
my exulting heart marked out as my own life pos¬ 
session. Ah, the anticipations of the young, and 
the enthusiastic, are indeed treacherous! Yet why 
anticipate !”—Mr. St. Aubyn here paused and 
sighed deeply ; his nephew did not make any re¬ 
mark, and after a few moments he again proceed¬ 
ed. “Well, we were married; her parents gave 
her a most magnificent wedding; it was the theme 
of newspaper praise for a week, and Mr. St. Au¬ 
byn was regarded in the same light; in which he 
regarded himself, as being a singularly fortunate 
and happy man, and the accomplished, elegant and 
beauteous bride as being without a comparison. 

“ How my heart exulted as I read the paragraph 
which went on to state that after the princely nup¬ 
tial entertainment, the happy couple took up their 
abode at the residence of the wealthy and distin¬ 
guished bridegroom in Broadway! 

“ Our marriage took place in the depth of win¬ 
ter, so that being at home instead of travelling as 


is usually customary after it, it was incumbent 
on us to celebrate the auspicious event, by a 
series of festivities suitable to the occasion; and 
party, ball, and rout, followed each other in quick 
succession, at all of which, whether at home or 
abroad, my wife shone as the * brightest particula r 
star/ and my proud heart swelled at the con¬ 
sciousness, as if it would have bursted with the 
overwhelming sense of its own intoxicating hap¬ 
piness. I was looking forward, however, to a ces¬ 
sation of these gaieties, as preparation for, and at¬ 
tendance on them, left little time for the enjoy¬ 
ment of that domestic happiness my heart so 
dearly prized, and which contrary to what most 
persons thought of me, I enjoyed above all other 
things. 

“By degrees, these gay doings ceased, and I an¬ 
ticipated the quiet of domestic life with the char¬ 
acteristic ardor of my disposition, and longed for 
nothing so much as to return of an evening to my 
adored Augusta, to enjoy that sweet uninterrupted 
commune which had often made so large a por¬ 
tion of our happiness in our unwedded days. 
For the Countess had her own engagements* 
the Count and his son theirs, we were left much 
to ourselves, and in the interchange of the most 
exalted sentiments, we passed some of the hap¬ 
piest hours of my existence ; and while listening 
to the ebullitions of her accomplished mind, how 
often would the thought thrill my soul with 
exstacy, of soon calling a being so superior, all my 
own, and of being blessed with a presence whose 
every word was music to my delighted soul, 
unchecked by the thought of separation, or in¬ 
terruption of any sort, save that which the 
performance of our duties enjoined; for, en¬ 
thusiast as I was, I knew that these remained 
to us. 

“ My wish was eventually gratified; the winter 
with all its gaities passed away, and we resolved 
to take up our abode early in the spring at our 
country residence. The season was unusually 
beautiful, and on the banks of the lordly Hudson 
behold me and my beauteous bride, inhabiting an 
abode which, for views of romantic and pictu¬ 
resque scenery without, and elegance and refined 
luxury within, stood unequalled in those days in 
this Republican country. The taste displayed in 
every thing, being purely English; rich, chaste, 
and superb as wealth could render k. 

“ Ab, Edward, to me it seemed a second para¬ 
dise, aud my Eve, lovely as Milton had rendered 
her,—perfect in beauty and matchless in mind, 
secured to me m perspective whole ages of inde¬ 
scribable bliss, and joy unutterable, for 


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173 


*• Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 

And every gesture dignity end love.” 

“Thus love painted her, thus love inflated the 
gay and gallant streamers, that propelled my hap¬ 
py bark o’er a sea of bliss, unbounded as the 
heavens that seemed to smile above our head sat 
witnessing a happiness so rare upon this troubled 
and careworn earth. 

“ I have told you that Augusta was a fine musi¬ 
cian and painter. She was besides a mediocre poet, 
and our country residence, I soon found was to 
be the scene for some charming achievement, in 
some of these branches of art. Of course as she 
unfolded her plans for this purpose, I was deligh¬ 
ted. A painting room, music room, and library, 
were, of course, immediately selected and fur¬ 
nished ; while I, pleased and gratified, looked on, 
delighted beyond every thing. 

“ My business transactions were still carried on 
in New-York, and I purposed visiting the city 
about once a week to inspect matters and keep 
them in a proper train. The rest of my time I 
purposed to spend at home, and in the enjoyment 
of that rural happiness so peculiar to an English¬ 
man. I promised myself much. My avocations 
too were laid out. On my estate there was a fine 
lake, well stocked with fish; my pleasure boats 
stood awaiting my use on the ponds or lakelets, 
within the precincts of my extensive domain. 
My gardens for fruit, flowers, and vegetables were 
large and beautifully laid out, so that employ¬ 
ment for my own time presented as great a variety 
as could well De desired. 

“Meantime, Mrs. St. Aubynhad commenced a 
fine painting. Its subject was a scene hard by. 
Yes, the painting commenced, and in its execution 
I was soon made to experience the futility and 
falsity of all human anticipations. I have said 
that Mis. St. Aubyn’fe chief view in going into 
the country was to achieve some great designs; 
but when she told me her plans for so doing, I 
little thought to what an extent they were to be 
carried, or the utter loneliness, to which, during 
its achivement, I was to be consigned. But I 
found it out soon enough to my cost. Study, 
absolutely, absorbed the whole of her time; after 
breakfast she usually went to the painting room, 
and continued to paint ’till exhaustion obliged her 
to leave off, and she was obliged to lie down to 
restore her overwrought faculties. We dined at 
five, against which she arose, and in dishevelled 
hair, loose gown, and slippers, she would it is true 
bear me company at the dinner table, but with a 
mind utterly uniuterested in every thing that 
passed around her. The dinner cloth being 
removed, after passing the day in sheer loneliness, 
21 


if the weather was fine I proposed a short drive, a 
walk, to insure myself something in the way of 
companionship. It was sometimes accepted, and 
sometimes rejected—with a coldness too, and indif¬ 
ference, that cut me to the heart. The evening 
hours, thought I, will however, be happy,— 
social enjoyment will at least crown and close the 
dismal solitude of the day. But in this hope 
too, 1 was mistaken. The evenings were to be 
I devoted, I found, to reading works on the art she 
; was pursuing with such avidity, viz., the perspec¬ 
tive of Daniel Barbaro, Euclid’s Geometry, and a 
i list of others which I now forget. After a day 
spent in such severe exercises, of course it will 
not appear strange that she was a late riser. On 
the contrary I was an early one, and I had the 
delectable satisfaction of sitting alone in my soli¬ 
tary breakfast parlor, and drinking my coffee to 
the tune of a worse bachelorhood than I ever 
knew even in my unwedded days ; for then I had 
| ^always plenty of company, if not companions, in 
I my fellow boarders, and absolute solitude was a 
; rare feeling indeed to one of my imaginative tem- 
! perament, for when the reality failed to supply a 
companion, my ready fancy sketched a perspec¬ 
tive that most young minds are prone to dwell on* 
and prone to embellish as I had done, only in too 
many instances to be deceived. 

| “About eleven o’clock Mis. St. Aubyn arose 
and ordered breakfast to be served in the library. 
Meantime I had strolled off with my fishing-rod, 
and seated on the banks of the lake, sat brooding 
over my wretched happiness, while the blind and 
foolish expectations I had indulged in, goaded me 
almost to madness. My romantic dreams, thought 
I, where are they now ? There is a beautiful and 
touching sadness awakened, when amid the quiet 
scenes of nature, you allow the mind to dwell on 
her stupenduous, magnificent, sweet, and gentle 
attributes, that accorded well with my melancholy 
feelings, and I indulged them to the full, 
i “ My fishing ground was centered in a most 
lovely spot; and while waiting to catch my glit¬ 
tering prey, my thoughts oft wandered from what 
appeared their avowed object, and my eye drank 
in the glorious beauty which surrounded me on 
every side. 

“Ere the dew was off the grass, I sought my 
1 accustomed seat; while my better half remained 
locked in the arms of sleep, regardless of those 
beauties which all nature was celebrating with 
anthems of praise, to the great Architect of the 
universe. The peculiar freshness of the morning 
air, the song of birds, the genial rays of the newly 
| risen sun, the ripple of the murmuring waters. 


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174 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


the waving foliage, and the distant sounds of rural II 
industry, made a scene of enjoyment, which, with 1 
companionship, would have formed an Elysium for 
my soul. But as it was, I had to bait my hook 
and muse away my lonely day as best I might. 
My wretchedness had not yet got to its height. 

I still cheated myself into a belief that I was be -1 
loved, and that this neglect of my happiness 
would cease with the completion of what my 
heart denominated that hated picture. 

“At the expiration of a week, however, my 
solitude was broken by a visit from my wife’s 
brother and a gentleman of bis and my acquain¬ 
tance. This intelligence was the most delight¬ 
ful I had heard for days; and I almost felt that 
I could have embraced the negro boy that brought t 
it to the scene of my daily sport. When I had 
just had the satisfaction of drawing out of the 
water a fine fish, which, with some others I had 
caught, I desired the boy to take back and get 
cooked for dinner. 

“I gave my visitors a cordial welcome you 
may be sure; and then fled to Mrs. St. Aubyn’s 
painting room to impart the news of their arrival 
to her; imagining she also would feel delighted. 
But it was quite the contrary; she was annoyed 
beyond measure, and absolutely taunted me with 
having no respect for her feelings, by showing by 
my aspect so much foolish pleasure at this, to 
her, at least, great interruption. She then asked 
me how I liked her picture ? It was impossible 
not to admire both the design and the execution 
so far as it had been done, and I praised it accor¬ 
dingly. This seemed to put her in good humor, 
and as I left the room, she promised to prepare 
herself to see them. 

“I went into the kitchen from there, to give 
orders for the dinner;—for my lady wife seemed 
to have given up all thoughts of such matters, 
since she had commenced painting, and it is pro¬ 
bable if 1 had not attended to this necessary part 
of our existence myself, to my other annoyances 
I should also have added this. 

144 Why, St. Aubyn, how miserable you look,’ 
was the exclamation of both my guests, as I 
reentered the parlor. ‘And such a beautiful 
place too, by George, it’s a perfect paradise.’ 

44 4 Do you like it ?’ said I, evading their first 
observation, about my looks. 

“ 4 Like it? why, who upon earth could miss 
liking such a lovely scene as this, that had any 
taste at all? But how in the name of fortune 
do you contrive to kill time ? However, a 
moment’s reflection, might have informed me on 
that point, and rendered the question quite 
superfluous. A man who has just passed the 


honey-moon with the society of a lovely wife, 
must find the hours flying on angels’ wings—nay, 
such a thing as time entirely forgotten.’ 

44 This he said, I thought, in a drawling, 
ironical tone. But though his words elicited a 
heavy sigh, which I smothered ere it escaped 
me, I made no other reply than that I killed time 
every day by killing fish. 

44 This called forth a hearty laugh, and a chal¬ 
lenge to see my fishing ground. To this I 
readily consented ; and I sallied forth with my 
friends forthwith to view it. 

44 The gentleman who accompanied Le Roux, 
was a fine handsome fellow; we had long been 
on terms of intimacy, but having been absent for 
eighteen months from New-York, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn had never seen him. He returned just 
before we left for the country. I introduced him 
to her brother one day, and invited him to come 
out with him to see us, and agreeably to my 
invitation they then came. 

44 The dinner was on the table at four that day, 
and for the first time since my arrival, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn was full dressed to grace it. I think I 
never saw her look so beautiful, as she did that 
day. And a quick glance at my friend showed 
that he thought so too. Our cook had exerted 
himself to the utmost, and the dinner was well 
cooked and handsomely served up: so that 
nothing detracted from the perfect enjoyment of 
the day on that score. The conversation too, 
took a delightful turn, we were all in spirits, 
Augusta among the rest. Rivers (the name of 
my friend,) admired her paintings decorating the 
walls, with, I thought, a degree of extravagance 
quite uncalled lor. But she was enchanted. 
Oh, woman, this is one of tby foibles! He saw 
that praise gratified her, and he plied it deeply, 
accordingly. She then told him how she had 
been engaged ; and he as a matter of course, 
asked to see the product ofher genius, and rallied 
me on my barbarous taste of killing fish from day 
to day, while my wife was engaged in such an 
elevated and refined employment; that for his 
part, he should think I required no greater hap¬ 
piness than preparing colors, and watching her 
fairy fingers, as they so fitfully glided over the 
canvass, converting every thing they touched into 
beauty almost inimitable. 

44 1 might have answered this gallant effusion, 
by saying that my wife required uninterrupted 
seclusion, during her hours of study, and that 
even if I had been so minded, her wishes to be 
alone had been so clearly expressed that I had 
never, even in thought, ventured an intrusion into 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS PROM LONDON. 


175 


her studio; but I did not, imagining that she 
would. 

“ She did not, however, and there the subject 
dropped; not, as I afterwards found, though, 
without a secret meaning. The apparently'neg¬ 
lectful husband was a theme that suited their 
purpose well; but I must not anticipate. 

“From this time my monotonous solitude 
was over; Rivers came continually to our house, 
often staying days and nights in succession. 

“ Oue change for the better was wrought by it. 
Mrs. St. Aubyn’s habits underwent a decided 
improvement; she rose early and proposed taking 
romantic walks before breakfast with her dear 
Henry, and Mr. Rivers; and afterwards taking a 
sail on the lake; then painting about an hour 
before an early dinner; then taking a drive after t 
and finishing the evening with music ! I had, 
besides, no longer any reason to complain of the 
carelessness of my wife’s attire. Her appearance 
would now have satisfied the most fastidious. 
She moved and looked enchantment, and her 
dearest Henry could no longer complain either 
of neglect or indifference to his happiness. My 
wife was now indeed a pattern for wives; and 
tny heart began once more to reckon on its 
mines of future happiness. Rivers, too, aided 
the deception, by constantly rallying my good 
fortune, in getting such a paragon of perfection 
for a wife. And I was again a proud and happy 
man; wondering how I ever could have been | 
otherwise. Our country visit, or rather sojourn, 
proceeded in this manner to its close; and early 
in the autumn we took up our abode in town. 

[ To be continued.] 

Original. 

SONNET TO- 

BT J. A. MAYBIE. 


Friend of my heart! when youth with me is o’er, 
And mndly battling in Ambition’s throng, 

On mountain-passes of the crown’d and strong, 
Marshall’d to music haughtier than the roar 
Of storms, that bids the fiery eagle soar; 

My manhood too must feel each base-born wrong— 
The sickness of the soul, when hate that long 
"Wore fairest guise, snake-like its crest uprears ; 

Suspicion then, with its dark lore will come, 

In open brow and smile a lure to see, 

And say that honor, loftiness and worth, 

Found never y t in human bren«t a home. 

How will the “ damning doubt” my spirit flee, 

At plastic memory gives thy image birth! 


Original. 

SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM 
LONDON.— Number vi. 

BY MRS. E. R. STEELE. 

A VISIT TO CHATSWORTH AND SHEFFIELD. 

Chatsworth is the name of a large domain, 
and elegant seat, of the Duke of Devonshire, one 
of England’s most refined, tasteful and wealthy 
noblemen. It is a pleasant morning drive from 
Sheffield, and while we are on our way thither 
perhaps it may be well to say a few words 
regarding the ancestors of the present owner. 
The nobles of England care not to date further 
j back than William, the Conqueror, and accor¬ 
dingly we find the genealogical title of the present 
i family date from Roger de Gernon, a knight who 
| ventured his all, and risked his life in the expedi¬ 
tion which placed William on the English throne, 
and was richly rewarded for his services by con¬ 
siderable grants of land in ]066. One of his 
descendants married into the family of the Lords 
of Cavendish manor in Suffolk, and according to 
the fashion of those times his sons took the name 
of Cavendish. This name the family have borne 
ever since, and borne with honor. They have 
figured in the history of England as statesmen, 
orators, philosophers, Lords Lieutenant of Ire¬ 
land, Privy Councillors, and in many other 
situations of trust and honor. By marriage 
many noble families have been allied with them, 
and great estates added to their domains. ODe 
of them, Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, married the 
Duke of Lenox, uncle of James I. Sir Thomas 
Cavendish the celebrated navigator, was of this 
family; and also Henry, the famous chemist. 
They also claim royal descent, through Charles 
Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married the 
princess Mary, daughter of Henry VII., and 
widow of Louis XII. They were created Earls 
of Devonshire in the reign of James I. . William, 
the fourth Earl first became Duke in conse¬ 
quence of services during the revolution of 1688. % 
Thus we see two of the family conspicuous in 
placing two Williams on the throne of England, 
and for these and other services rewarded with 
the rich estates they hold. Sir William Caven¬ 
dish purchased Chatsworth at the commence¬ 
ment of the sixteenth century,—and there his 
descendants have since lived, each one adding a 
new beauty, until it is the superb domain now 
before us. The first entrance to the estate is 
through a gate into a small hamlet, consisting of 
antique thatched cottages, covered with mo 98 ; 
and a small inn, in front of which, swung a sign 


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176 


SUMMER EXCURSIONS PROM LONDON. 


representing the Duke’s arms. From thence, 
our drive continued through the farm to another 
village, in which stood conspicuous the fine old 
Gothic church of St. Peter. There are here 
interesting tablets and monuments of the Caven¬ 
dish family. At a short distance are the grand 
gates and lodge of the park. As it is against the 
rules for the hundreds of visitors who come to 
gee the place, to drive their carriages over the 
smooth roads of the park, we dismounted at a 
handsome inn, built for the accommodation of 
visitors, by the late Duke. We enter now the 
park. This comprises twelve hundred and 
eighty acres, including four hundred and twenty 
woodland. Our first view of the house and 
surrounding scenery was superb. Around us 
stretched an English park, covering the gently 
rolling land with a carpet of bright tinted soft 
green turf,—upon which copses and groves of 
trees were arranged with the finest taste. In the 
centre arose the princely towers of Chatsworth, 
encircled by hills covered with farms and wood¬ 
lands, ending in the high, bold Peaks of Derby. 
The small river Derwent winds through the 
grounds, over which are several picturesque 
bridges, adding to the beauty of the scene. As 
we passed along we could not but admire the 
velvet sward, the grass of which is cut, swept 
with brooms, and afterwards rolled so that [it is 
literally as smooth as a carpet. This gives em¬ 
ployment to many poor men and women. Herds 
of deer were reposing upon this soft mossy lawn, 
or browsing beneath the shade. We cross 
another bridge, and behold before us 

“-proud Chnfpworth’a towers, 

Reflect Sol’s setting rays—as now yon chain 

Of gold-tipped inountuinit crown her lawua and bowers.” 

The building is formed of several parts and wings, 
surrounding a court in the centre. Before us 
was the west part, which is one hundred and 
seventy-two feet in length. It is adorned by 
pilasters of the Ionic order. High over the 
centre are the arms of Cavendish carved and 
gilded. This heraldric device consists of two 
harts supporting a coronet, with the motto,— 
** Cavcndo tutus ”—a play upon the name, 
meaning, Secure with caution, or Secure under 
Cavendish, Gilded sashes and gilded balconies 
give a rich air to this front, which opens on a 
long terrace-walk and small garden. A grand 
arch, in which are gates of wrought iron 
encircled with gilded flowers, leads into the 
court on the north end. In front, and at our 
left, is the building itself, while on our right runs 
a walk surmounted by a stone balustrade, adorned 
with carved vases. Doors in this, lead to the 
Retrace, 


From this court we entered the grand hall, 
whose magnificence is extraordinary. It is paved 
with white and black marble, surrounded by mar¬ 
ble columns, between massive tablets of marble, 
supported with frames carved and gilded. On 
one of these lay a book, in which we were 
requested to write our names. From this hall a 
stone stair-case leads to a corridor running round 
above, the balustrade of which and the stairs are 
gilded. The sides of the stair-way are covered 
with slabs of pink and white alabaster, while the 
wall of the corridor, ceiling and hall are painted 
in glowing colors, representing scenes from 
Roman story and mythology. Ascending the 
stairs we pass info a suite of magnificent apart¬ 
ments, where every thing which taste, wealth and 
art can produce is lavished. Some of the rooms 
are lined with exquisite gobelin tapestry, repre¬ 
senting in brilliant tints the cartoons of Raphael: 
others are covered with stamped leather highly 
gilded. Ancient inlaid cabinets, cases of rare 
marbles, articles of Virtu and fine old paintings, 
adorn these rooms. The walls and ceilings of 
many are painted by Verrio and Laguerre and 
Sir Janies Thornhill in allegorical devices. In 
one apartment are the thrones and footstools 
used at the coronation of George III., and his 
Queen, which the perquisites of the late Duke, 
as Lord Chamberlain. There is one dining¬ 
room fiftv-seven feet by thirty. The walls are 
lined with alabaster, let into which are mirrors 
with gilt mouldings;—the door-frames are ol the 
same elegant material beautifully carved. The 
windows have only two panes each of plate-glass, 

: which give them the air of being entirely open, 
j and bring at once before us the exquisite scenery 

I of the parks. In one view we take in the velvet 
lawns which are set with silver lakes of diffe¬ 
rent forms; while mixed with the foliage are 
white statues and glowing parterres; and beyond 

II all a foaming cataract descending the wooded 
i hill. Through drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, 
f music-rooms, apartments of state, we now passed, 

while the eye was unable to take in the mass of 
rich adornment, of paintings, sculpture, vases, 
porphyry, cabinets of fossils, and tasteful furniture 
which decorate these gilded walls. One species 
of adornment from its novelty and beauty 
attracted our notice; this was the cedar carving 
of Grinlin Gibbons. Over the door-ways, or 
suspended above the mantels, we beheld wreaths 
of flowers, carved from cedar-wood, so exqusitely 
finished that every delicate petal or stamin was 
faithfully delineated. In some rooms we saw 
groups of dead game of this same materia], 
where each feather was in its place; and some 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


177 


enclosed in net game-bags so naturally carved as 
to deceive the eye at a little distance. 

The Library is a noble room of over eighty 
feet in length. The collection of books is very 
good, and in it is the chemical apparatus of Henry 
Cavendish. In the recesses of the deep windows 
are cases of books with looking-glass doors, and 
on one side of the room is a gallery supported by 
bronze columns; and in this apartment you 
enter the cabinet library and the ante-library. 

These classic nooks we may suppose the 
favorite retreats of the philosopher Hobbs, who 
here lived many years under the patronage of the 
Cavendish family, and who here wrote his “ De 
Mirabilis Pecci.” In one of these window- 
recesses also, probably St. Evremond wrote to 
Waller, while looking forth upon scenery which 
he describes as being more romantic than any 
thing he had seen, “ except the region about 
Valois.” 

The centre, however, of all magnificence and 
taste is the sculpture-gallery. We found our¬ 
selves in a lofty room one hundred and three 
feet long, where we beheld in life-like groups a 
noble assembly of heroic, manly forms, and beings 
of etherial loveliness. Here were master-pieces 
by various sculptors.—Briseis torn from Achilles, 
by Thorswaldsen ;—Latona and her children, by 
Pozzi,—Cupid wounded, by Trentanova,—Castor 
and Pollux, by Schadow, etc. These and many 
others, however, we turned from to contemplate 
the soft and pleasing forms of Canova. Of these, 
Hebe is a lovely creation; and the mother of 
Napoleon a finely executed figure; but in 
Pauline, the Corsican’s favorite sister, is united 
all the sculptor’s finest traits. The Princess 
Borghese is seated, gazing upon a portrait of 
Napoleon, which she holds in her hand. So 
graceful is her position, so exquisitely perfect is 
her delicate head and her arms, and so touching 
the expression of sisterly devotion, that we again 
and again turn from the Venus and goddesses 
around us to gaze upon her once more. There 
are many fine busts, vases, urns and other rare 
pieces of sculpture, in this apartment. Among 
the most conspicuous of these are two fine lions 
of marble, each nine feet long. The Picture- 
galleries surrounded a court of the castle opening 
into which are lofty windows, with gilded balco¬ 
nies. Here were chef d’ceuvres of many masters, 
and portraits of the family. The chapel is a 
very interesting part of the building. It is on the 
first floor, and we enter it from a door in the hall. 
Here carving, painting and sculpture are lavished 
to form an apartment of extraordinary richness. 
The walls are lined with cedar, the panels of 


which are surrounded by carved wreaths such 
as I have described before. The pulpit stands 
in a large niche, which with the canopy over 
it, are of the beautiful pink and white alabaster 
of Derbyshire, carved in scrolls and flowers. 
Paintings by Laguerre and Verrio adorn the va¬ 
cant spaces, and on the ceiling is painted the As- 
scension. A row of chairs against the wall are for 
the tenants, while the Duke and his family sit in 
a gallery above, which opens from the apartments 
on the upper story. From thence we pass into 
the fragrant orangery, which is one hundred feet 
long, is covered by a glass roof, and lighted be¬ 
sides by large windows. Bas-reliefs by Thors¬ 
waldsen and superb vases of granite and marble 
adorn the apartment, which is filled with large 
orange trees and flowering plants. Some of these 
orange trees possess peculiar interest, for they 
stood once in Malmaison, and were cherished by 
the fair hand of Josephine. We stept out now 
into the perfumed air of the gardens and pleasure 
grounds which extend over eight acres of land, 
where amid shrubbery, fountains, cascades and 
flowers, one is never tired with wandering. The 
Duke has just built a new conservatory, which 
does credit to his taste and magnificence. It is 
three hundred feet long, two hundred and eighty 
broad, entirely covered with glass, so as to look at 
a distance,—to use a homely figure—like a huge 
glass bowl. Within is a path, where one may 
drive among fruits and flowers, the choicest of 
many lands. Water is led through it by pipes 
passing in every direction filled with heated air. 
To give an idea of the vastness of this perfumed 
bower, the gardener told us these pipes measure 
seven miles. The kitchen garden alone covers 
several acres, and has in it numerous hot houses 
where are reared all kinds of fruit, sent by relays 
to the Duke who is now in Paris, and who every 
day eats strawberries and grapes or pines from his 
own conservatories. A melancholy interest is 
attached to Chatsworth as having once been the 
abode of Mary of Scotland for sixteen years. A 
! small tower is still standing on the grounds called 
Mary’s bower, the garden of which washer favorite 
resort. There are apartments in this house 
shown as her’s, but probably only stand on their 
site, as the house has been rebuilt. A bed and 
tapestry still remain which were in her room, and 
some of her needle work is preserved. She was 
here under the care of the celebrated Bess of 
Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury, who ren¬ 
dered her imprisonment more irksome by her in¬ 
triguing and restless disposition. Lodge, an Eng¬ 
lish writer, says of her.—* 4 She was a woman of 
masculine understanding and conduct, proud, 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


furious, selfish and unfeeling. She was a builder, 
a buyer and seller of estates, a money-lender, a 
farmer, a merchant of lead coals, and timber.” 
She left her large estates to her descendants im¬ 
proved and rendered of great value. The present 
Duke has imitated this lady in her taste and her 
improvements, but alas! he enjoys not, with her, 
the happiness of reflecting that he is working for 
his descendants, for he has do children and may 
never hope to marry. The Duke’s history is a 
romantic one, and is said to have been taken by 
Miss Edgeworth as the plot of the Eunui. He 
is a changeling. The circumstances are very 
little known, bur it is understood he is son of a 
courier, whose wife while nursing the real heir 
substituted her child for it. It is said rhe Duke 
is allowed to retain possession of the estates dur¬ 
ing life, with the proviso of not marrying, so that 
that there may not be trouble among the heirs. 
He is highly educated and refined, and under 
George, the Fourth, held high offices at court, 
and is universally admired. 

On our return to our inn we visited a fancy 
village built by the Duke in his park. The houses 
are all of light stone, built in pretty gothic style* 
and grouped around a handsome church, em¬ 
bowered in lime trees. Here at a very small rent 
live some of the Duke’s favorite tenants. It is a 
very pretty and princely plaything. 

While in Sheffield we visited some of these 
wonderful shops which supply all the world with 
their shining cutlery. 

In the rooms of the Messrs. Rogers, we were 
shown the choicest specimens of their workman¬ 
ship in steel, silver and gold. Here we passed 
through numerous rooms, filled with cases con- 1 
taining every requisite for the most luxurious 
bouse, for the toilette, the table, or a ladies work- j 
stand,—finished in the most perfect manner. In j 
penknives they stand unrivalled, and exhibit spe- | 
cimens from a quarter of an inch long to that | 
triumph of mechanism, the monster of eighteen 
hundred and forty two blades. Upon a mantle I 
of one of the rooms we were shown a large and 
beautifully wrought vase of gold. This was pre¬ 
sented to the Messrs. Rogers by their workmen , | 
as a testimony of their gratitude for the uniform j 
liberality and kindness shown them for many 
years past,—some of the white slaves probably of 
which many newspapers make so much capital. 
To these gentlemen this must be the brighest 
ornament of their rooms. The steel used in this 
establishment is from the forges of the celebrated 
house of Sanderson, Brothers & Co. We were 
afterwards indebted to one of the firm for a long 
and interesting examination of these steel manu¬ 


factories, where the rough ore is turned into 
glittering steel. We were also struck with the 
enormous extent to which this business is carried 
by this firm, whose numerous furnace houses 
appear so many villages,—for whose forges, the 
whole production of one iron mine is required, 
and whose ware houses and offices are found in 
the principal cities of Europe and the United 
States. Every thing is done by the benevolent 
heads of this great house, to render their work¬ 
men’s lives as happy as is possible. Their houses 
are given them rent free and coal allowed them. 
A sick fund has been raised from which, by the 
payment of sixpence a month, the sick can draw 
money when they cannot work. An attention to 
gardening is encouraged, and the dingy workman 
sees his lowly hut bright with the clustering rose, 
the primrose or dahlia—and the ale house is 
deserted for the spade and rake. Oh, that more 
of such men dwelt among earth’s laborers! 

Sheffield is situated at the confluence of the 
Don and the Sheaf. Its principal trade is in iron 
and steel, the smoke of whose forges is seen ever 
ascending. Its cutlery has been celebrated since 
the earliest ages of British history. A cutlers’ 
society is formed in it, composed of the highest 
manufacturers, by whose counsel all works are 
judged and condemned if false, to be destroyed in 
a public place. Frauds in the trade consequently 
are few. The master cutler is, also, mayor of 
the city. 

There are several good churches and public 
buildings in Sheffield. Among them are Trinity 
church, St. George’s,—the Town Hall, Cutlers’ 
Hall, and many others. Sheffield has produced 
two celebrated poets. The verses of Ebenezer 
Elliot, the corn-law rhymer, are in keeping with 
a trading city; but bow the spiritual Montgomery 
could elevate his thoughts from amidst the din 
of machinery and smoke of forges is a wonder. 
This surprise is increased when one looks into 
the humble dwelling where he wrote most of his 
earliest works. This was shown us by the kind¬ 
ness of a literary friend. His window opens into 
a wretched alley, where herde some of the poorest 
of the population, and amid the yelling of dirty 
children quarrelling over their cold meat bones, 
his soul was able to wander to the finest scenes 
of earth and to the shining courts above. 

The scenery in the environs of Sheffield is 
very beautiful. There the eye roves over 
gently rolling hills covered with luxuriant farms 
and gardens, among which rise the lofily man¬ 
sions of the ‘ merchant princes’ of the city, one 
of these being at present our own luxurious and 
hospitable home. Sheffield has also been cele- 


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THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


179 


brated in romance. In the city and its vicinity 
are laid some of the scenes of Ivanhoe and Peve- 
ril of the Peak. Conisborough castle now in 
ruins, was the home of Cedric, the Saxon, and 
the ruin near Castleton, the residence of the 
redoubted Peveril. On the road to Chatsworth 
we cross the moorland, which is a tract of land 
covered with dark boggy ground, upon which 
nothing will grow. This is kept by the noble¬ 
men who own the land as game preserves. The 
dark hilly masses of this uneven tract alternate 
with gloomy ravines, making often picturesque 
scenes. Sheffield and its environs have always 
been the property of some of England’s noblest 
families. Here have lived the Furnivals, Nevils, 
De Buslis, Talbots and Howards. The redoubted 
Saxon earl, Waltheof, son of Siward the Dane, 
and leader of the armies of Edward the confessor, 
here held his proud sway before the conquest. 
Long did he struggle against the Norman con¬ 
queror, but in vain. He afterwards married the 
celebrated Countess Judith, niece of the con- 
querer’s, who is designated by a historian of the 
day, by the undesirable appellation af impiissima 
Jezebel . The high souled Waltheof, we all know, 
afterwards revolted and was beheaded. The iron 
works and mines of Sheffield can be traced back 
to the Britons, since which time the trade has 
been rapidly improving. The arrival of several 
artizans from the Netherlands in fifteen hundred 
and seventy, contributed to their improvement, 
and now in their present perfection they stand 
alone and unrivalled. 


Original. 

SONG. 

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 


The Ladye vis lovely, the Ludye was young 
And pride curled her lips as she merrily sung: 

I have now thee to love me, all cold as thou art, 

I have now thee to love me, untameable heart. 

For this every joy of my life has been given, 

For this I have risked every promise of heaven:— 
I have now thee to love me;—I hold thee in thrall, 
And die sight of thy bondage repuys me for all. 


I have now thee to love me. untameable heart,— 

I hnve now thee to love me, and now,—let us part! 
Thou may’st throw off my fetters in haughty disdain, 
But the scar and the aching must ever remain: 

My toils may seem frail as the wood-spider’s net, 

But Love’s *pell is upon thee,—thou canst not forget. 


O r i r I □ a I. 

THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, 

OR, GOSSIP. 


Under this title we propose to keep our readers 
acquainted with so much of the manners and 
moral of Parisian life, as we may deem most 
interesting to them to know and most proper to 
appear in a publication of our character, popula¬ 
rity and standing. 

We do not know that any philosopher, ancient 
or modern, dead or living, has said that much 
truth aod knowledge of life may be gathered from 
an anecdote, bon mot, or saying. Has no philo¬ 
sopher said this ? Then we say it, and now to 
illustrate our meaning. 

The Composer Pradher who died in the month 
of November last at Paris was aD eminent musi¬ 
cian. The opera comique was indebted to him 
for many a pleasant piece. At the age of sixteen he 
married the famous Philedor, and at his second 
nuptials Mademoiselle More, a charming actress 
of the old Freydeau. At the time of the consu¬ 
late, Pradher, then very young, was yet a pianist 
of great merit. Garat,wbo liked him very much, 
charged himself with the care of his tuition and 
fortune. He introduced him to several elegant 
salons; and one day—about the time of the com¬ 
mencement of the Empire—the celebrated singer 
having been invited to sing at a concert given at 
the Tuileries, asked and obtained permission to 
take Pradher with him as accompanist. 

Garat had already had the honor of singing 
several times before his majesty; but Pradher 
had never been present at such a fete . This 
occasion was one then of the most magnificent 
importance to him, and he was proud at the idea 
of making his debut at court. Full of ardor and 
impatience, the young pianist repaired to the resi¬ 
dence of his protcctcur long before the appointed 
time, and found Garat at his mirror folding his 
twelfth cravat to essay a new tie. 

“ Vous voila already !” exclaimed the illustri¬ 
ous singer. “ Ah ! mon ami, I shall make a 
sensation this evening.” 

“ I do not doubt it,” Pradher replied, “you 
always do.” 

“ But this time more than ever; I shall make 
a thundering impression.” 

“ Everything is possible to a voice like yours.” 

“ You are wide of the mark, my friend,” replied 
Garat; “lam not speaking of my voice, but re¬ 
ferring to my toilette. Look at me. What do you 
think of this coiffure 1 How do you like this vest ? 


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180 


THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


What is your opinion of this frock, the cut of 
which I planned myself?” 

From a weakness, of which we find more than 
one example among great artists, Garat thought 
more of his reputation as a dandy, than of his 
success as a singer; he liked much better to be 
praised for the elegance of his costume, than for 
the exqnisite charm of his voice: Pradher, who 
knew his weakness, humoured him. “ It is per¬ 
fect,” said he, “ admirable, ravishing, nothing is 
wanting, and now, that your toilette is finished, 
what are we waiting for ? 

“ We are waiting hill they come for me,” 
replied Garat: “ it is the custom.” Etiquette 
prohibits me from piesenting myself at the Tuile- 
ries. One of the hushers of the Chateau will be 
here presently to take me in an imperial carriage.” 

An instant after, as Garat had said, an envoyc 
of the Tuileries presented himself to conduct the 
illustrious singer to the court concert. 

“ The coach is below,” said he respectfully. 
Garat passed out first, proud and superb; Prad¬ 
her followed him slowly, but full of hope and joy. 
They descended the stairs, they arrived at the 
carriage entrance, and Garat uttered a cry of Bur- 
prise and indignation. 

“ What is that! a hackney coach ?—a vile 
sapin , for me! This is something Dew. They 
used to send for me in a court carriage.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” replied the messenger, “ but 
this being the occasion of a grand gala, all the 
carriages are employed elsewhere.” 

“Vexation! ’’screamed the vocalist; “but a 
man of my position cannot go in a hackney 
coach.” 

“ There are no means of acting otherwise this 
time.” 

“ Oh yes there are, and very simple ones; I 
won’t go to the concert at all.” 

“You are joking! You are expected, you are 
down on the programme; his majesty relies upon 
you; I have been ordered to conduct you, and I 
shall obey orders.” 

“ Do you mean to use violence ?” 

The envoys did not say so, but looked as if he 
intended to carry out his mission cavalierly by 
taking Garat by the shoulders and forcing him to 
enter the hackney coach. 

“ Ah, it is so, is it!” exclaimed the singer, at 
the threat of violence, “you absolutely must 
repair to the chateau ? Eh bien! perhaps.” 

Saying this, he threw himself not into the 
coach, but into the gutter, thrust into the mud 
his legs so delicately chauss£es in white silk 
stockings, heroically splashed his ravishing toi¬ 
lette ; then soiled from head to foot, he presented 


himself before the surprised envoy6, and then 
said to him in an accent full of passion and irony* 

“ I am ready to follow you, Monsieur; con¬ 
duct me to the concert of the Tuileries.” 

It was necessary to yield, and on this occasion 
the Imperial auditory was fain to get along with¬ 
out the charming vocalist! Garat was triumphant, 
but his unfortunate accompanist was in despair. 

The commencement and the close of the ball 
season are always signalized by numerous mar¬ 
riages in the Grand Monde . At the beginning 
of last month, there was celebrated in the church 
de la Madeleine one of those unions which have 
been quite a la-mode in our time—a marriage at 
onee aristocratic and financial, aristocratic on the 
part of the husband, financial on that of the wife. 
We like to see nobility and cash lending each 
other a helping hand and professing devotion and 
fidelity. The bride was the daughter of Mons. 

R-, an old banker of Marseilles who died 

a little while since leaving an immense fortune. 
Several anecdotes were circulated at the nuptial 
cortege among others the following, which con¬ 
cerns one of our most distinguished poets. 

Enriched by honorable speculations, Monsr. 

R- made a good use of his immense fortune; 

He loved literature, which he had cultivated in 
his youth; he loved the society of artists and 
writers of merit; he welcomed them always with 
empressement , and often encouraged them with 
largesse . 

Mery, the Poet, arrived at Marseilles’; shun¬ 
ning the rigors of a Parisian winter, be went to 
sun himself in the mild rays of his natal sky. 
To celebrate his arrival, the banker gave a 
splendid dinner, at which “ assisted” all the nota¬ 
bilities of the city. Charming conversation 
and lively sallies circulated round the table 
during the repast; then, when the greater part 
of the guests had retired and there remained in 
the salon but a few intimate friends, the conver¬ 
sation took a more familiar turn, a more expan¬ 
sive one, and Monsieur R. said to the author: 

“ My dear Mery, like most poets, you think 
but little of the future ; it is for your friends to 
think for you, and I charge myself with that task. 
Do not be uneasy, but give way fearlessly to your 
happiest inspirations.” 

To prove that these were not empty words, 
the banker opened a secretary and took from it a 
paper, which he unfolded— 

“ See here,” said he, “ this is a codicil to my 
will, by which I have left you a legacy of a 
hundred thousand francs.” 

A flattering murmur welcomed this act of 


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195 


tttE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


generosity, and the poet after having properly 
expressed his gratitude, observed to the banker 
that his property belonged to his children, and 
then declared that he would not accept the 
legacy. It was in vain for Monsieur R. to say 
that each of his children would be millionaires 
twice over, and that a bagatelle of a hundred 
thousand francs was of no importance to them. 
The poet was obstinate in his refusal, and to put 
an end to the struggle, which threatened to be a 
long one, he made himself master of the codicil 
and tore it up, with the best grace in the world. 

Shortly after this scene, Monsieur R. died. 

This event caused a great sensation in the 
city, and a general mourning. On the day of the 
burial, our poet, who is the chilliest fellow in 
Europe, was sitting close by his fire-side, his feet 
upon the bars, when one of his friends entered, 
and said to him in a mournful tone— 

“ Ah ! if you had but accepted that legacy— 

“Eh bien!” replied the poet, in the same 
tone, “ did it not look like inspiration ?” 

“ How ?” cried his friend. 

“Certainly,” replied Mery, “look at the 
weather we have to-day ; frightfully cold and 
villanously misty. If I had accepted that legacy 
I should not have been able to dispense with 
going to the funeral, and should have infallibly 
caught cold.” 

Monsieur Alphonse Karr, in one of the last 
numbers of his Guepes, (Wasps,) said, “Mon¬ 
sieur B—author of a treatise on swimming, 
is a fort nageur , (swimmer,) but not a nageur 
dt pemiere force .” 

Now Monsieur B. pretends that he is the first 
triton in France and Navarre. Great then was 
his fury on reading this article, to which he sent 
the following reply, directed to Karr: 

**It if now twenty years since I was proclaimed the first 
swimmer of the capital, and in that time I have had at least ten 
affairs of honor to maintain my nautical snpremacy. I shall 
not recoil from the eleventh one to prove to you, Monsieur, that 
not only am 1 a strong swimmer, but now, the strongest in 
Paris.” 

It should be known that the author of the 
Guepes has transported his hives to Etre-tat. 
Monsieur B. did not hesitate an instant, and for 
fear that his challenge should miss its direction, 
he took the Rouen rail-road and arrived at 
Etre-tat, the Normandy of prawns and lobsters. 
He repaired to the residence of the writer, and 
found that he had left for Paris an hour before. 

Doubly furious, he returned to Paris by the 
same rail-road, ran to the hotel where his adver¬ 
sary had alighted, and sent up to him the “ afore¬ 
said” billet, with these words added, in the form 
of a pvstscriptum :— 

22 


“ My witnesses will come in an hour to arrange with yoo.” 

An hour afterwards, the two witnesses knocked 
at the door of the celebrated Wasp. All means 
of conciliation having failed, the writer came 
right to the point. 

“ Your day, gentlemen V* 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ The hour? 0 

“Eight o’clock. 0 

11 The place ?” 

“ The Pont Royal. 0 

“Your arms ?” 

“ The River Seine.” 

The author “went off” in an explosion of 
laughter. “ I understand it is a duel a Veau , 
that you propose ?” 

“ Exactly. Monsieur B. does all his fighting 
by swimming. Neither a sword nor a pistol will 
prove that he is a stronger swimmer, than you— 
by his method doubt will be impossible.” 

“ Fort bien, if it was in the month of August# 
but in the month of November, the glass seven 
degrees below zero I^Does Monsieur take me 
for a marine monster ?” 

“ This is his ultimatum. I ought however to 
add that the duel will be followed by an excellent 
dejeuner at Vefour’s, at Monsieur B’s. expense.” 

Alphonse Karr reflected a moment, and thinking 
the whole affair very original, wrote a reply thus 
conceived, to Monsieur B.” 

« I accept your proposition* To-morrow, at eight o’clock# 1 
will be with you.” 

The next day, at the hour appointed, the 
author of the Guepes stood before Monsieur B. 

“ You see I am exact.” 

“ Tres bien, exactitude is the politesse of 
writers. One moment, and we will set out to 
fight.” 

And the duelist in deep waters set about pre¬ 
paring his swimming costume. Already had he 
drawn on the garment prescribed by modesty and 
the constitutional charter, when the writer ex¬ 
claimed 

*♦ Were you serious in sending me that 
challenge!” 

“ Very serious! what did you come for!" 

“ Parbleu /” replied the other, "to breakfast. 0 

“ Then you confess yourself beaten ?” 

“ I will tell you that at the dessert; let us go.’* 

They went out, breakfasted, and the bill was 
paid by Monsieur B., who eat as much as four 
Alphonse Karrs. 

“ Eh bien ! now' go; you recognise me for a 
swimmer of premiere force V' 

“You will find my reply in the next number 

of the Guepes.” 

Here it is* 


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18 G 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


“ Ah, well,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, with a sigh, I 
44 at the time of which I speak, I was happy; but, | 
to proceed; I soon made up my mind on the sub¬ 
ject, and resolved as soon as propriety admitted to 
make her an offer in due form of my hand, heart, 
and fortune. j 

“Time, as a matter of course deepened my at- j 
tachment, and at the expiration of six months j 
from our first introduction to each other I made an | 
avowal of my sentiments, and sued for a return. ' 

“ Her answer was every thing my fond heart de- ! 
sired, and with a happiness at heart which may 
be imagined, but not described, I commenced 
preparations for the reception of my bride in a ' 
home, suitable to the exalted ideas I entertained i> 
for her, and becoming equally our rank and for¬ 
tune. 

“ Of course we were to hare a town and country 
residence, furnished in the most magnificent style, , 
with equipages to correspond. All this I resolved 
on, without once thinking whether she had a dow¬ 
er or not; which by the by she had not. Indeed 
that was a matter of perfect indifference to me. 
My heart was satisfied to the full, in every parti¬ 
cular, and that sufficed. 

“ My resources being ample, all necessary prepa¬ 
rations were soon completed, and the wedding 
day fixed. Oh, Edward, how exquisite was my 
happiness ! my present and future seemed to my 
enraptured view to be one continued scene of en¬ 
chantment—the joys of paradise could alone ex¬ 
press my exstatic thought, for not a cloud ob¬ 
scured the brightness of my mind's horizon; not 
a shadow rested on the sun-dial that so temptingly 
emblazoned on its shining surface, a destiny which 
my exulting heart marked out as my own life pos¬ 
session. Ah, the anticipations of the young, and 
the enthusiastic, are indeed treacherous! Yet why 
anticipate !”—Mr. St. Aubyn here paused and 
sighed deeply ; his nephew did not make any re¬ 
mark, and after a few moments he again proceed¬ 
ed. “Well, we were married; her parents gave 
her a most magnificent wedding; it was the theme 
of newspaper praise for a week, and Mr. St. Au¬ 
byn was regarded in the same light; in which he 
regarded himself, as being a singularly fortunate 
and happy man, and the accomplished, elegant and 
beauteous bride as being without a comparison. 

“ How my heart exulted as I read the paragraph 
which went on to state that after the princely nup¬ 
tial entertainment, the happy couple took up their 
abode at the residence of the wealthy and distin¬ 
guished bridegroom in Broadway ! 

44 Our marriage took place in the depth of win¬ 
ter, so that being at home instead of travelling as 


is usually customary after it, it was incumbent 
on us to celebrate the auspicious event, Jby a 
series of festivities suitable to the occasion; and 
party, ball, and rout, followed each other in quick 
succession, at all of which, whether at home or 
abroad, my wife shone as the 4 brightest particula r 
star,’ and my proud heart swelled at the con¬ 
sciousness, as if it would have bursted with the 
overwhelming sense of its own intoxicating hap¬ 
piness. I was looking forward, however, to a ces¬ 
sation of these gaieties, as preparation for, and at¬ 
tendance on them, left little time for the enjoy¬ 
ment of that domestic happiness my heart so 
dearly prized, and which contrary to what most 
persons thought of me, I enjoyed above all other 
things. 

44 By degrees, these gay doings ceased, and I an¬ 
ticipated the quiet of domestic life with the char¬ 
acteristic ardor of my disposition, and longed for 
nothing so much as to return of an evening to my 
adored Augusta, to enjoy that sweet uninterrupted 
commune which had often made so large a por¬ 
tion of our happiness in our unwedded days. 
For the Countess had her own engagements, 
the Count and his son theirs, we were left much 
to ourselves, and in the interchange of the most 
exalted sentiments, we passed some of the hap¬ 
piest hours of my existence ; and while listening 
to the ebullitions of her accomplished mind, how 
often would the thought thrill my soul with 
exstacy, of soon calling a being so superior, all my 
own, and of being blessed with a presence whose 
every word was music to my delighted soul, 
unchecked by the thought of separation, or in¬ 
terruption of any sort, save that which the 
performance of our duties enjoined; for, en¬ 
thusiast as I was, I knew that these remained 
to us. 

44 My wish was eventually gratified; the winter 
with all its gaities passed away, and we resolved 
to take up our abode early in the spring at our 
country residence. The season was unusually 
beautiful, and on the banks of the lordly Hudson 
behold me and my beauteous bride, inhabiting an 
abode which, for views of romantic and pictu¬ 
resque scenery without, and elegance and refined 
luxury within, stood unequalled in those days in 
tbi9 Republican country. The taste displayed in 
every thing, being purely English; rich, chaste, 
and superb as wealth could render it. 

44 Ah, Edward, to me it seemed a second para¬ 
dise, and my Eve, lovely as Milton had rendered 
her,—perfect in beauty and matchless in mind, 
secured to me in perspective whole ages of inde¬ 
scribable bliss, and joy unutterable, for 


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173 


*«Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 

And every gesture dignity and love.” 

“Thus love painted her, thus love inflated the 
gay and gallant streamers, that propelled my hap- 1 
py bark o’er a sea of bliss, unbounded as the 
heavens that seemed to smile above our head sat j 
witnessing a happiness so rare upon this troubled i 
and careworn earth. t 

“ I have told you that Augusta was a fine musi¬ 
cian and painter. She was besides a mediocre poet, J 
and our country residence, I soon found was to 
be the scene for some charming achievement, in ' 
some of these branches of art. Of course as she i 
unfolded her plans for this purpose, I was deligh- ! 
ted. A painting room, music room, and library, j 
were, of course, immediately selected and fur¬ 
nished; while I, pleased and gratified, looked on, ;l 
delighted beyond every thing. |j 

“My business transactions were still carried on j 
in New-York, and I purposed visiting the city i 
about once a week to inspect matters and keep j 
them in a proper train. The rest of my time I. 
purposed to spend at home, and in the enjoyment 
of that rural happiness so peculiar to an English¬ 
man. I promised myself much. My avocations 
too were laid out. On my estate there was a fine 
lake, well stocked with fish; my pleasure boats 
stood awaiting my use on the ponds or lakelets, 
within the precincts of my extensive domain. 
My gardens for fruit, flowers, and vegetables were 
large and beautifully laid out, so that employ¬ 
ment for my own time presented as great a variety ■ 
as could well t>e desired. j 

“Meantime, Mrs. St. Aubynhad commenced a | 
fine painting. Its subject was a scene hard by. I 
Yes, the painting commenced, and in its execution j 
I was soon made to experience the futility and | 
falsity of all human anticipations. I have said 
that Mrs. St. Aubyn’s chief view in going into 
the country was to achieve some great designs; 
but when she told me her plans for so doing, I 
little thought to what an extent they were to be 
carried, or the utter loneliness, to which, during ! 
its achivement, I was to be consigned. But I I 
found it out soon enough to my cost. Study, j 
absolutely, absorbed the whole of her time; after ! 
breakfast she usually went to the painting room, | 
and continued to paint’till exhaustion obliged her j 
to leave off, and she was obliged to lie down to ! 
restore her overwrought faculties. We dined at j 
five, against which she arose, and in dishevelled 
hair, loose gown, and slippers, she would it is true 
bear me company at the dinner table, but with a 
mind utterly uninterested in every thing that 
passed around her. The dinner cloth being . 
removed, after passing the day in sheer loneliness, | 
21 


if the weather was fine I proposed a short drive, a 
walk, to insure myself something in the way of 
companionship. It was sometimes accepted, and 
sometimes rejected—with a coldness too, and indif¬ 
ference, that cut me to the heart. The evening 
hours, thought I, will however, be happy,— 
social enjoyment will at least crown and close the 
dismal solitude of the day. But in this hope 
too, 1 was mistaken. The evenings were to be 
devoted, I found, to reading works on the art she 
was pursuing with such avidity, viz., the perspec¬ 
tive of Daniel Barbaro, Euclid’s Geometry, and a 
list of others which I now forget. After a day 
spent in such severe exercises, of course it will 
not appear strange that she was a late riser. On 
the contrary I was an early one, and I had the 
delectable satisfaction of sitting alone in my soli¬ 
tary breakfast parlor, and drinking my coffee to 
the tune of a worse bachelorhood than I ever 
knew even in my unwedded days; for then I had 
^always plenty of company, if not companions, in 
my fellow boarders, and absolute solitude was a 
rare feeling indeed to one of my imaginative tem¬ 
perament, for when the reality failed to supply a 
companion, my ready fancy sketched a perspec¬ 
tive that most young minds are prone to dwell on, 
and prone to embellish as I had done, only in too 
many instances to be deceived. 

“About eleven o’clock Mis. St. Aubyn arose 
and ordered breakfast to be served in the library. 
Meantime I had strolled off with my fishing-rod, 
and seated on the banks of the lake, sat brooding 
over my wretched happiness, while the blind and 
foolish expectations I had indulged in, goaded me 
almost to madness. My romantic dreams, thought 
I, where are they now? There is a beautiful and 
touching sadness awakened, when amid the quiet 
scenes of nature, you allow the mind to dwell on 
her stupenduous, magnificent, sweet, and gentle 
attributes, that accorded well with my melancholy 
feelings, and I indulged them to the full. 

“ My fishing ground was centered in a most 
lovely spot; and while waiting to catch my glit¬ 
tering prey, my thoughts oft wandered from what 
appeared their avowed object, and my eye drank 
in the glorious beauty which surrounded me on 
every side. 

“Ere the dew was off the grass, I sought my 
accustomed seat; while my better half remained 
locked in the arms of sleep, regardless of those 
beauties which all nature was celebrating with 
anthems of praise, to the great Architect of the 
universe. The peculiar freshness of the morning 
air, the song of birds, the genial rays of the newly 
risen sun, the ripple of the murmuring waters. 


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171 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


the waving foliage, and the distant sounds of rural 
industry, made a scene of enjoyment, which, with 
companionship, would have formed an Elysium for 
my soul. But as it was, I had to bait my hook 
and muse away my lonely day as best I might. 
My wretchedness had not yet got to its height. 
I still cheated myself into a belief that I was be¬ 
loved, and that this neglect of my happiness 
would cease with the completion of what my 
heart denominated that hated picture. 

“At the expiration of a week, however, my 
solitude was broken by a visit from my wife’s 
brother and a gentleman of his and my acquain¬ 
tance. This intelligence was the most delight¬ 
ful I had heard for days; and I almost felt that 
I could have embraced the negro boy that brought 
it to the scene of my daily sport. When I had 
just had the satisfaction of drawing out of the 
water a fine fish, which, with some others I had 
caught, I desired the boy to take back and get 
cooked for dinner. 

“I gave my visitors a cordial welcome you 
may be sure; and then fled to Mrs. St. Aubyn’s 
painting room to impart the news of their arrival 
to her; imagining she also would feel delighted. 
But it was quite the contrary; she was annoyed 
beyond measure, and absolutely taunted me with 
having no respect for her feelings, by showing by 
my aspect so much foolish pleasure at this, to 
her, at least, great interruption. She then asked 
me how I liked her picture ? It was impossible 
not to admire both the design and the execution 
so far as it had been done, and I praised it accor¬ 
dingly. This seemed to put her in good humor, 
and as I left the room, she promised to prepare 
herself to see them. 

“I went into the kitchen from there, to give 
orders for the dinner;—for my lady wife seemed 
to have given up all thoughts of such matters, 
since she had commenced painting, and it is pro¬ 
bable if 1 had not attended to this necessary part 
of our existence myself, to my other annoyances 
I should also have added this. 

“‘Why, St. Aubyn, how miserable you look,’ 
was the exclamation of both my guests, as 11 
reentered the parlor. ‘And such a beautiful 
place too, by George, it’s a perfect paradise.’ 

“ ‘ Do you like it V said I, evading their first 
observation, about my looks. 

“ ‘ Like it? why, who upon earth could miss 
liking such a lovely scene as this, that had any 
taste at all? But how in the name of fortune 
do you contrive to kill time ? However, a 
moment’s reflection, might have informed me on 
that point, and rendered the question quite 
superfluous. A man who has just passed the 


honey-moon with the society of a lovely wife, 
must find the hours flying on angels’ wings—nay, 
such a thing as time entirely forgotten.’ 

“ This he said, I thought, in a drawling, 
ironical tone. But though his words elicited a 
heavy sigh, which I smothered ere it escaped 
me, I made no other reply than that I killed lime 
every day by killing fish. 

“ This called forth a hearty laugh, and a chal¬ 
lenge to see my fishing ground. To this I 
readily consented ; and J sallied forth with my 
friends forthwith to view it. 

“ The gentleman who accompanied Le Roux, 
was a fine handsome fellow; we had long been 
on terms of intimacy, but having been absent for 
eighteen months from New-York, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn had never seen him. He returned just 
before we left for the country. I introduced him 
to her brother one day, and invited him to come 
out with him to see us, and agreeably to my 
invitation they then came. 

“ The dinner was on the table at four that day, 
and for the first time since my arrival, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn was full dressed to grace it. I think I 
never saw her look so beautiful, as she did that 
day. And a quick glance at my friend showed 
that he thought so too. Our cook had exerted 
himself to the utmost, and the dinner was well 
cooked and handsomely served up: so that 
nothing detracted from the perfect enjoyment of 
the day on that score. The conversation too, 
took a delightful turn, we were all in spirits, 
Augusta among the rest. Rivers (the name of 
my friend,) admired her paintings decorating the 
walls, with, I thought, a degree of extravagance 
quite uncalled lor. But she was enchanted. 
Oh, woman, this is one of thy foibles! He saw 
that praise gratified her, and he plied it deeply, 
accordingly. She then told him how she had 
been engaged ; and he as a matter of course, 
asked to see the product of her genius, and rallied 
me on my barbarous taste of killing fish from day 
to day, while my wife was engaged in such an 
elevated and refined employment; that for his 
part, he should think I required no greater hap¬ 
piness than preparing colors, and watching her 
fairy fingers, as they so fitfully glided over the 
canvass, converting everything they touched into 
beauty almost inimitable. 

“ I might have auswered this gallant effusion, 
by saying that my wife required uninterrupted 
seclusion, during her hours of study, and that 
even if I had been so minded, her wishes to be 
alone had been so clearly expressed that I had 
never, even in thought, ventured an intrusion into 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


175 


her studio; but I did not, imagining that she 
would. 

44 She did not, however, and there the subject 
dropped; not, as I afterwards found, though, 
without a secret meaning. The apparently'neg¬ 
lectful husband was a theme that suited their 
purpose well; but I must not anticipate. 

“From this’ time my monotonous solitude 
was over; Rivers came continually to our house, 
often staying days and nights in succession. 

“ One change for the better was wrought by it. 
Mrs. St. Aubyn’s habits underwent a decided 
improvement; she rose early and proposed taking 
romantic walks before breakfast with her dear 
Henry, and Mr. Rivers; and afterwards taking a 
sail on the lake; then painting about an hour 
before an early dinner; then taking a drive after^ 
and finishing the evening with music ! I had, 
besides, no longer any reason to complain of the 
carelessness of my wife's attire. Her appearance 
would now have satisfied the most fastidious. 
She moved and looked enchantment, and her 
dearest Henry could no longer complain either 
of neglect or indifference to his happiness. My 
wife was now indeed a pattern for wives; and 
my heart began once more to reckon on its 
mines of future happiness. Rivers, too, aided 
the deception, by constantly rallying my good 
fortune, in getting such a paragon of perfection 
for a wife. And I was again a proud and happy 
man; wondering how I ever could have been 
otherwise. Our country visit, or rather sojourn, 
proceeded in this manner to its close; and early 
in the autumn we took up our abode in town. 

[ To be continued .] 


Original. 

SONNET TO- 

BT J. A. MAYBIE. 


Friend of my heart! when youth with me is o’er, 
And madly battling in Ambition’s throng, 

On mountain-passes of the crown’d and strong, 
Marshall’d to music haughtier than the roar 
Of storms, that bids the fiery eagle soar; 

My manhood too must feel each base-born wrong— 
The sickness of the soul, when hate that long 
Wore fairest guise, snake-like its crest uprears ; 

Suspicion then, with its dork lore will come, 

In open brow and smile a lure to see, 

And say that honor, loftiness nnd worth, 

Found never y« t in human breast a home. 

How will the “ damning doubt” my spirit flee, 

As plastic memory gives thy image birth! 


Original. 

SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM 
LONDON. —Number vi. 

BY MRS. E. R. STEELE. 

A VISIT TO CHATSWORTH AND SHEFFIELD. 

Chatsworth is the name of a large domain, 
and elegant seat, of the Duke of Devonshire, one 
of England’s most refined, tasteful and wealthy 
noblemen. It is a pleasant morning drive from 
Sheffield, and while we are on our way thither 
perhaps it may be well to say a few words 
regarding the ancestors of the present owner. 
The nobles of England care not to date further 
back than William, the Conqueror, and accor¬ 
dingly we find the genealogical title of the present 
family date from Roger de Gernon, a knight who 
ventured his all, and risked his life in the expedi¬ 
tion which placed William on the English throne, 
and was richly rewarded for his services by con¬ 
siderable grants of land in ]066. One of his 
descendants married into the family of the Lords 
of Cavendish manor in Suffolk, and according to 
the fashion of those times his sons took the name 
of Cavendish. This name the family have borne 
ever since, and borne with honor. They have 
figured in the history of England as statesmen, 
orators, philosophers, Lords Lieutenant of Ire¬ 
land, Privy Councillors, and in many other 
situations of trust and honor. By marriage 
many noble families have been allied with them, 
and great estates added to their domains. One 
of them, Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, married the 
Duke of Lenox, uncle of James I. Sir Thomas 
Cavendish the celebrated navigator, was of this 
family; and also Henry, the famous chemist. 
They also claim royal descent, through Charles 
Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married the 
princess Mary, daughter of Henry VII., and 
widow of Louis XII. They were created Earls 
of Devonshire in the reign of James I.. William, 
the fourth Earl first became Duke in conse¬ 
quence of services during the revolution of 1688. ' 
Thus we see two of the family conspicuous in 
placing two Williams on the throne of England, 
and for these and other services rewarded with 
the rich estates they hold. Sir William Caven¬ 
dish purchased Chatsworth at the commence¬ 
ment of the sixteenth century,—and there his 
descendants have since lived, each one adding a 
new beauty, until it is the superb domain now 
before us. The first entrance to the estate is 
through a gate into a small hamlet, consisting of 
antique thatched cottages, covered with moss; 
and a small inn, in front of which, swung a sign 


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176 


SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


representing the Duke’s arms. From thence, 
our drive continued through the farm to another 
village, in which stood conspicuous the fine old 
Gothic church of St. Peter. There are here 
interesting tablets and monuments of the Caven¬ 
dish family. At a short distance are the grand 
gates and lodge of the park. As it is against the 
rules for the hundreds of visitors who come to 
see the place, to drive their carriages over the 
smooth roads of the park, we dismounted at a 
handsome inn, built for the accommodation of 
visitors, by the late Duke. We enter now the 
park. This comprises twelve hundred and 
eighty acres, including four hundred and twenty 
woodland. Our first view of the house and 
surrounding scenery was superb. Around us 
stretched an English park, covering the gently 
rolling land with a carpet of bright tinted soft 
green turf,—upon which copses and groves of 
trees were arranged with the finest taste. In the 
centre arose the princely towers of Chatsworth, 
encircled by hills covered with farms and wood¬ 
lands, ending in the high, bold Peaks of Derby. 
The small river Derwent winds through the 
grounds, over which are several picturesque 
bridges, adding to the beauty of the scene. As 
we passed along we could not but admire the 
velvet sward, the grass of which is cut, swept 
with brooms, and afterwards rolled so that ;it is 
literally as smooth as a carpet. This gives em¬ 
ployment to many poor men and women. Herds 
of deer were reposing upon this soft mossy lawn, 
or browsing beneath the shade. We cross 
another bridge, and behold before us 

“-proud Ohatjworth’s towers, 

Reflect Sol’s setting mv*—as now yon chain 

Of gold-tipped inountuins crowu her lawns and bowers.” 

The building is formed of several parts and wings, 
surrounding a court in the centre. Before us 
was the west part, which is one hundred and 
seventy-two feet in length. It is adorned by 
pilasters of the Ionic order. High over the 
centre are the arms of Cavendish carved and 
gilded. This heraldric device consists of two 
harts supporting a coronet, with the motto,— 
14 Cavendo tutus "—a play upon the name, 
meaning, Secure with caution, or Secure under 
Cavendish. Gilded sashes and gilded balconies 
give a rich air to this front, which opens on a 
long terrace-walk and small garden. A grand 
arch, in which are gates of wrought iron 
encircled with gilded flowers, leads into the 
court on the north end. In front, and at our 
left, is the building itself, while on our right runs 
a walk surmounted by a stone balustrade, adorned 
with carved vases. Doors in this, lead to the 
fteirace. 


From this court we entered the grand hall, 
whose magnificence is extraordinary. It is paved 
w ith white and black marble, surrounded by mar¬ 
ble columns, between massive tablets of marble, 
supported with frames carved and gilded. On 
one of these lay a book, in which we were 
requested to write our names. From this hall a 
stone stair-case leads to a corridor running round 
above, the balustrade of which and the stairs are 
gilded. The sides of the stair-way are covered 
with slabs of pink and white alabaster, while the 
wall of the corridor, ceiling and hall are painted 
in glowing colors, representing scenes from 
Roman story and mythology. Ascending the 
stairs we pass into a suite of magnificent apart¬ 
ments, where every thing which taste, wealth and 
art can produce is lavished. Some of the rooms 
are lined with exquisite gobelin tapestry, repre¬ 
senting in brilliant tints the cartoons of Raphael: 
others are covered with stamped leather highly 
gilded. Ancient inlaid cabinets, cases of rare 
marbles, articles of Virtu and fine old paintings, 
adorn these rooms. The walls and ceilings of 
many are painted by Verrio and Laguerre and 
Sir James Thornhill in allegorical devices. In 
one apartment are the thrones and footstools 
used at the coronation of George III., and his 
Queen, which the perquisites of the late Duke, 
as Lord Chamberlain. There is one dining¬ 
room fifty-seven feet by thirty. The walls are 
lined with alabaster, let into which are mirrors 
with gilt mouldings;—the door-frames are ot the 
same elegant material beautifully carved. The 
windows have only two panes each of plate-glass, 
which give them the air of being entirely open, 

I and bring at once before us the exquisite scenery 
I of the parks. In one view we take in the velvet 
lawns which are set with silver lakes of diffe¬ 
rent forms; while mixed with the foliage are 
white statues and glowing parterres; and beyond 
!, all a foaming cataract descending the wooded 
hill. Through drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, 
music-rooms, apartments of state, we now passed, 
while the eye was unable to take in the mass of 
rich adornment, of paintings, sculpture, vases, 
porphyry, cabinets of fossils, and tasteful furniture 
which decorate these gilded walls. One species 
of adornment from its novelty and beauty 
attracted our notice; this was the cedar carving 
of Grinlin Gibbons. Over the door-ways, or 
suspended above the mantels, we beheld wreaths 
of flowers, carved from cedar-wood, so exqusitely 
finished that every delicate petal or stamin was 
faithfully delineated. In some rooms we saw 
groups of dead game of this same material, 
where each feather was in its place; and some 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


177 


enclosed in net game-bags so naturally carved as I which are surrounded by carved wreaths such 
to deceive the eye at a little distauce. ! as I have described before. The pulpit stands 

The Library is a noble room of over eighty I in a large niche, which with the canopy over 
feet in length. The collection of books is very ; it, are of the beautiful pink and white alabaster 
good, and in it is the chemical apparatus of Henry 
Cavendish. In the recesses of the deep windows 
are cases of books with looking-glass doors, and 
on one side of the room is a gallery supported by scension. A row of chairs against the wall are for 
bronze columns; and in this apartment you the tenants, while the Duke and his family sit in 
enter the cabinet library and the ante-library. a gallery above, which opens from the apartments 
These classic nooks we may suppose the on the upper story. From thence we pass into 
favorite retreats of the philosopher Hobbs, who the fragrant orangery, which is one hundred feet 
here lived many years under the patronage of the long, is covered by a glass roof, and lighted be- 
Cavendish family, and who here wrote his 44 De sides by large windows. Bas-reliefs by Thors- 
Mirabilis Pecci.” In one of these window- waldsen and superb vases of granite and marble 
recesses also, probably St. Evremond wrote to adorn the apartment, which is filled with large 
Waller, while looking forth upon scenery which orange trees and flowering plants. Some of these 
he describes as being more romantic than any orange trees possess peculiar interest, for they 
thing he had seen, “ except the region about stood once in Malmaison, and were cherished by 
Valois.” the fair hand of Josephine. We stept out now 

The centre, however, of all magnificence and into the perfumed air of the gardens and pleasure 
taste is the sculpture-gallery. We found our- grounds which extend over eight acres of land, 
selves in a lofty room one hundred and three where amid shrubbery, fountains, cascades and 
feet long, where we beheld in life-like groups a flowers, one is never tired with wandering. The 
noble assembly of heroic, manly forms, and beings Duke has just built a new conservatory, which 
of etherial loveliness. Here were master-pieces does credit to his taste and magnificence. It is 
by various sculptors.—Briseis torn from Achilles, ! three hundred feet long, two hundred and eighty 
by Thorswaldsen ;—Latona and her children, by I broad, entirely covered with glass, so as to look at 
Pozzi,—Cupid wounded, by Trentanova,—Castor a distance,—to use a homely figure—like a huge 
and Pollux, by Schadow, etc. These and many! glass bowl. Within is a path, where one may 
others, however, we turned from to contemplate j drive among fruits and flowers, the choicest of 
the soft and pleasing forms of Canova. Of these, j many lands. Water is led through it by pipes 
Hebe is a lovely creation; and the mother of! passing in every direction filled with heated air. 
Napoleon a finely executed figure ; but in To give an idea of the vastness of this perfumed 
Pauline, the Corsican’s favorite sister, is united bower, the gardener told us these pipes measure 
all the sculptor’s finest traits. The Princess seven miles. The kitchen garden alone covers 
Borghese is seated, gazing upon a portrait of several acres, and has in it numerous hot houses 
Napoleon, which she holds in her hand. So where are reared all kinds of fruit, sent by relays 
graceful is her position, so exquisitely perfect is to the Duke who is now in Paris, and who every 
her delicate head and her arms, and so touching day eats strawberries and grapes or pines from his 
the expression of sisterly devotion, that we again ' own conservatories. A melancholy interest is 
and again turn from the Venus and goddesses, attached to Chatsworth as having once been the 
around us to gaze upon her once more. There | abode of Mary of Scotland for sixteen years. A 
are many fine busts, vase9, urns and other rare !i small tower is still standing on the grounds called 
pieces of sculpture, in this apartment. Among j Mary’s bower, the garden of which washer favorite 
the most conspicuous of these are two fine lions ! resort. There are apartments in this house 
of marble, each nine feet long. The Picture- shown as her’s, but probably only stand on their 
galleries surrounded a court of the castle opening site, as the bouse has been rebuilt. A bed and 
into which are lofty windows, with gilded balco- tapestry still remain which were in her room, and 
nies. Here were chef d’ceuvres of many masters, some of her needle work is preserved. She was 
and portraits of the family. The chapel is a here under the care of the celebrated Bess of 
very interesting part of the building. It is on the Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury, who ren- 
first floor, and we enter it from a door in the hall, dered her imprisonment more irksome by her in- 
Here carving, painting and sculpture are lavished triguing and restless disposition. Lodge, an Eng- 
to form an apartment of extraordinary richness, lish writer, says of her.—** She was a woman of 
The walls are lined with cedar, the panels of u masculine understanding and conduct, proud. 


of Derbyshire, carved in scrolls and flowers. 
Paintings by Laguerre and Verrio adorn the va¬ 
cant spaces, and on the ceiling is painted the As- 


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178 


SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


furious, selfish and unfeeling. She was a builder, 
a buyer and seller of estates, a money-lender, a 
farmer, a merchant of lead coals, and timber.” 
She left her large estates to her descendants im¬ 
proved and rendered of great value. The present 
Duke has imitated this lady in her taste and her 
improvements, but alas! he enjoys not, with her, 
the happiness of reflecting that he is working for 
his descendants, for he has no children and may 
never hope to marry. The Duke's history is a 
romantic one, and is said to have been taken by 
Miss Edgeworth as the plot of the Eunui. He 
is a changeling. The circumstances are very 
little known, bur it is understood he is son of a 
courier, whose wife while nursing the real heir 
substituted her child for it. It is said the Duke 
is allowed to retain possession of the estates dui- 
ing life, with the proviso of not marrying, so that 
that there may not be trouble among the heirs. 
He is highly educated and refined, and under 
George, the Fourth, held high offices at court, 
and is universally admired. 

On our return to our inn we visited a fancy 
village built by the Duke in his park. The houses 
are all of light stone, built in pretty gothic style, 
and grouped around a handsome church, em¬ 
bowered in lime trees. Here at a very small rent 
live some of the Duke’s favorite tenants. It is a 
very pretty and princely plaything. 

While in Sheffield we visited some of these 
wonderful shops which supply all the world with 
their shining cutlery. 

In the rooms of the Messrs. Rogers, we were 
shown the choicest specimens of their workman¬ 
ship in steel, silver and gold. Here we passed 
through numerous rooms, filled with cases con¬ 
taining every requisite for the most luxurious 
bouse, for the toilette, the table, or a ladies work- 
stand,—finished in the most perfect manner. In 
penknives they stand unrivalled, and exhibit spe¬ 
cimens from a quarter of an inch long to that 
triumph of mechanism, the monster of eighteen ; 
hundred and forty two blades. Upon a mantle 
of one of the rooms we were shown a large and | 
beautifully wrought vase of gold. This was pre¬ 
sented to the Messrs. Rogers by their workmen, | 
as a testimony of their gratitude for the uniform j 
liberality and kindness shown them for many * 
years past,—some of the white slaves probably of 
which many newspapers make so much capital. 
To these geutlemen this must be the brigliest 
ornament of their rooms. The steel used iu this 
establishment is from the forges of the celebrated 1 
house of Sanderson, Brothers & Co. We were jj 
afterwards indebted to one of the firm for a long ji 
and interesting examination of these steel manu¬ 


factories, where the rough ore is turned into 
glittering steel. We were also struck with the 
enormous extent to w hich this business is carried 
by this firm, whose numerous furnace houses 
appear so tnany villages,—for whose forges, the 
whole production of one iron mine is required, 
and whose ware houses and offices are found in 
the principal cities of Europe and the United 
States. Every thing is done by the benevolent 
heads of this great house, to render their work¬ 
men’s lives as happy as is possible. Their houses 
are given them rent free and coal allowed them. 
A sick fund has been raised from which, by the 
payment of sixpence a month, the sick can draw 
money when they cannot work. An attention to 
gardening is encouraged, and the dingy workman 
sees his lowly hut bright with the clustering rose, 
the primrose or dahlia—and the ale house is 
deserted for the spade and rake. Oh, that more 
of such men dwelt among earth’s laborers! 

Sheffield is situated at the confluence of the 
Don and the Sheaf. Its principal trade is in iron 
and steel, the smoke of whose forges is seen ever 
ascending. Its cutlery has been celebrated since 
the earliest ages of British history. A cutlers’ 
society is formed in it, composed of the highest 
manufacturers, by whose counsel all works are 
judged and condemned if false, to be destroyed in 
a public place. Frauds in the trade consequently 
are few. The master cutler is, also, mayor of 
the city. 

There are several good churches and public 
buildings in Sheffield. Among them are Trinity 
church, St. George’s,—the Town Hall, Cutlers’ 
Hall, and many others. Sheffield has produced 
two celebrated poets. The verses of Ebenezer 
Elliot, the corn-law rhymer, are in keeping with 
a trading city; but how the spiritual Montgomery 
could elevate his thoughts from amidst the din 
of machinery and smoke of forges is a wonder. 
This surprise is increased when one looks into 
the humble dwelling where he wrote most of his 
earliest works. This was shown us by the kind¬ 
ness of a literary friend. His window opens into 
a wretched alley, where herde some of the poorest 
of the population, and amid the yelling of dirty 
children quarrelling over their cold meat bones, 
his soul was able to wander to the finest scenes 
of earth and to the shining courts above. 

The scenery in the environs of Sheffield is 
very beautiful. There the eye roves over 
gently rolling hills covered with luxuriant farms 
and gardens, among which rise the loftly man¬ 
sions of the ‘merchant princes’ of the city, one 
of these being at present our own luxurious and 
hospitable home. Sheffield has also been cele- 


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THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


179 


brated in romance. In the city and its vicinity 
are laid some of the scenes of Ivanhoe and Peve- 
ril of the Peak. Conisborough castle now in 
ruins, was the home of Cedric, the Saxon, and 
the ruin near Castleton, the residence of the 
redoubted Peveril. On the road to Chatsworth 
we cross the moorland, which is a tract of land 
covered with dark boggy ground, upon which 
nothing will grow. This is kept by the noble¬ 
men who own the land as game preserves. The 
dark hilly masses of this uneven tract alternate 
with gloomy ravines, making often picturesque 
scenes. Sheffield and its environs have always 
been the property of some of England’s noblest 
families. Here have lived the Furnivals, Nevils, 
De Buslis, Talbots and Howards. The redoubted 
Saxon earl, Waltheof, son of Siward the Dane, 
and leader of the armies of Edward the confessor, 
here held his proud sway before the conquest. 
Long did he struggle against the Norman con¬ 
queror, but in vain. He afterwards married the 
celebrated Countess Judith, niece of the con- 
querer’s, who is designated by a historian of the 
day, by the undesirable appellation af impiissima 
Jezebel. The high souled Waltheof, we all know, 
afterwards revolted and was beheaded. The iron 
works and mines of Sheffield can be traced back 
to the Britons, since which time the trade has 
been rapidly improving. The arrival of several 
artizans from the Netherlands in fifteen hundred 
and seventy, contributed to their improvement, 
and now in their present perfection they stand 
alone and unrivalled. 


Original. 

SONG. 

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 


The Ladye was lovely, the Ladye was young 
And pride curled her lips as she merrily sung: 

I have now thee to love me, all cold as thou art, 

I have now thee to love me, untameable heart. 

For this every joy of my life has l>cen given, 

For this I have risked every promise of heaven 
I have now thee to love me;—I hold thee in thrall, 
And the sight of thy bondage repays me for all. 


I have now thee to love me. untameable heart,— 

I have now thee to love me, and now,—let us part! 
Thou may’et throw off my fetters in haughty disdain, 
But the scar and the aching must ever remain; 

My toils may seem frail as the wood-spider’s net, 

But Love’s spell is upon thee,—thou canst not forget. 


Original. 

THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, 

OR, GOSSIP. 


Under this title we propose to keep our readers 
acquainted with so much of the manners and 
moral of Parisian life, as we may deem most 
interesting to them to know and most proper to 
appear in a publication of our character, popula¬ 
rity and standing. 

We do not know that any philosopher, ancient 
or modern, dead or living, has said that much 
truth and knowledge of life may be gathered from 
an anecdote, bon mot, or saying. Has no philo¬ 
sopher said this ? Then we say it, and now to 
illustrate our meaning. 

The Composer Pradher who died in the month 
of November last at Paris was an eminent musi¬ 
cian. The opera comique was indebted to him 
for many a pleasant piece. At the age of sixteen he 
married the famous Philedor, and at his second 
nuptials Mademoiselle More, a charming actress 
of the old Freydeau. At the time of the consu¬ 
late, Pradher, then very young, was yet a pianist 
of great merit. Garat, who liked him very much, 
charged himself with the care of his tuition and 
fortune. He introduced him to several elegant 
salons; and one day—about the time of the com¬ 
mencement of the Empire—the celebrated singer 
having been invited to sing at a concert given at 
the Tuileries, asked and obtained permission to 
take Pradher with him as accompanist. 

Garat had already had the honor of singing 
several times before his majesty; but Pradher 
had never been present at such a fete . This 
occasion was one then of the most magnificent 
importance to him, and he was proud at the idea 
of making his debut at court. Full of ardor and 
impatience, the young pianist repaired to the resi¬ 
dence of his protcctcur long before the appointed 
time, and found Garat at his mirror folding his 
twelfth cravat to essay a new tie. 

44 Vous voila already!” exclaimed the illustri¬ 
ous singer. 44 Ah ! mon ami, I shall make a 
sensation this evening.” 

j 44 I do not doubt it,” Pradher replied, “you 
always do.” 

| 44 But this time more than ever; I shall make 

a thundering impression.” 

44 Everything is possible to a voice like yours.” 

44 You are wide of the mark, ray friend,” replied 
Garat; 44 1 am not speaking of my voice, but re¬ 
ferring to my toilette. Look at me. What do you 
think of this coiffure ? How do you like this vest ? 


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180 


THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


What is your opinion of this frock, the cut of 
which I planned myself?” 

From a weakness, of which we find more than 
one example among great artists, Garat thought 
more of his reputation as a dandy, than of his 
success as a singer; he liked much better to be 
praised for the elegance of his costume, than for 
the exqnisite charm of his voice: Pradher, who 
knew his weakness, humoured him. 44 It is per¬ 
fect,” said he, 44 admirable, ravishing, nothing is 
wanting, and now, that your toilette is finished, 
what are we waiting for ? 

44 We are waiting ’till they come for me,” 
replied Garat: 44 it is the custom.” Etiquette 
prohibits me from presenting myself at the Tuile- 
ries. One of the hushers of the Chateau will be 
here presently to take me in an imperial carriage.” 

An instant after, as Garat had said, an cnvoyc 
of the Tuileries presented himself to conduct the 
illustrious singer to the court concert. 

44 The coach is below,” said he respectfully. 
Garat passed out first, proud and superb; Prad¬ 
her followed him slowly, but full of hope and joy. 
They descended the stairs, they arrived at the 
carriage entrance, aud Garat uttered a cry of sur¬ 
prise and indignation. 

44 What is that! a hackney coach ?—a vile 
sapin , for me! This is something new. They 
used to send for me in a court carriage.” 

44 Undoubtedly,” replied the messenger, 44 but 
this being the occasion of a grand gala, all the 
carriages are employed elsewhere.” 

“Vexation! ’’screamed the vocalist; “but a 
man of my position cannot go in a hackney 
coach.” 

44 There are no means of acting otherwise this 
time.” 

44 Oh yes there are, aud very simple ones; I 
won’t go to the concert at all.” 

“You are joking! You are expected, you are 
down on the programme; his majesty relies upon 
you; I have been ordered to conduct you, and I 
shall obey orders.” 

“ Do you mean to use violence ?” 

The envoys did not say so, but looked as if he 
intended to carry out his mission cavalierly by 
taking Garat by the shoulders and forcing him to 
enter the hackney coach. 

44 Ah, it is so, is it!” exclaimed the singer, at 
the threat of violence, “you absolutely must 
repair to the chateau ? Ehbien! perhaps.” 

Saying this, he threw himself not into the 
coach, but into the gutter, thrust into the mud 
his legs so delicately chauss€es in white silk 
stockings, heroically splashed his ravishing toi¬ 
lette ; then soiled from head to foot, he presented 


himself before the surprised envoys, and then 
said to him in an accent full of passion and irony* 
44 1 am ready to follow you, Monsieur; con¬ 
duct me to the concert of the Tuileries.” 

It was necessary to yield, and on this occasion 
the Imperial auditory was fain to get along with¬ 
out the charming vocalist! Garat was triumphant, 
but his unfortunate accompanist was in despair. 


The commencement and the close of the ball 
season are always signalized by numerous mar¬ 
riages in the Grand Monde . At the beginning 
of last month, there was celebrated in the church 
de la Madeleine one of those unions which have 
been quite a la-mode in our time—a marriage at 
ouee aristocratic and financial, aristocratic on the 
part of the husband, financial on that of the wife. 
We like to see nobility and cash lending each 
other a helping hand and professing devotion and 
fidelity. The bride was the daughter of Mons. 

R-, an old banker of Marseilles who died 

a little while since leaving an immense fortune. 
Several anecdotes were circulated at the nuptial 
cortege among others the following, which con¬ 
cerns one of our most distinguished poets. 

Enriched by honorable speculations, Monsr. 

R- made a good use of his immense fortune; 

He loved literature, which he had cultivated in 
his youth; he loved the society of artists and 
writers of merit; he welcomed them always with 
empressement, and often encouraged them with 
largesse . 

Mery, the Poet, arrived at Marseilles'; shun¬ 
ning the rigors of a Parisian winter, he went to 
sun himself in the mild rays of his natal sky. 
To celebrate his arrival, the banker gave a 
splendid dinner, at which 44 assisted” all the nota¬ 
bilities of the city. Charming conversation 
and lively sallies circulated round the table 
during the repast; then, when the greater part 
of the guests had retired and there remained in 
the salon but a few intimate friends, the conver¬ 
sation took a more familiar turn, a more expan¬ 
sive one, and Monsieur R. said to the author: 

44 My dear Mery, like most poets, you think 
but little of the future ; it is for your friends to 
think for you, and I charge myself with that task. 
Do not be uneasy, but give way fearlessly to your 
happiest inspirations.” 

To prove that these were not empty words, 
the banker opened a secretary and took from it a 
paper, which he unfolded— 

44 See here,” said he, 44 this is a codicil to my 
will, by which I have left you a legacy of a 
hundred thousand francs.” 

A flattering murmur welcomed this act of 


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195 


THE PARISIAN CHRO 


generosity, and the poet after having properly 
expressed his gratitude, observed to the banker 
that his property belonged to his children, and 
then declared that he would not accept the 
legacy. It was in vain for Monsieur R. to say 
that each of his children would be millionaires 
twice over, and that a bagatelle of a hundred 
thousand francs was of no importance to them. 
The poet wa 9 obstinate in his refusal, and to put 
an end to the struggle, which threatened to be a 
long one, he made himself master of the codicil 
and tore it up, with the best grace in the world. 

Shortly after this scene, Monsieur R. died. 

This event caused a great sensation in the 
city, and a general mourning. On the day of the 
burial, our poet, who is the chilliest fellow in 
Europe, was sitting close by his fire-side, his feet 
upon the bars, when one of his friends entered, 
and said to him in a mournful tone— 

“ Ah ! if you had but accepted that legacy—” 

“Eh bien!” replied the poet, in the same 
tone, “ did it not look like inspiration V ’ 

“ How ?” cried his friend. 

“Certainly,” replied Mery, “look at the 
weather we have to-day ; frightfully cold and 
villanously misty. If I had accepted that legacy 
I should not have been able to dispense with 
going to the funeral, and should bate infallibly 
caught cold.” 

Monsieur Alphonse Karr, in one of the last 
numbers of his Guepes , (Wasps,) said, “Mon¬ 
sieur B——, author of a treatise on swimming, 
is a fort nageur , (swimmer,) but not a nageur 
dt pemiere force .” 

Now Monsieur B. pretends that he is the first 
triton in France and Navarre. Great then was 
his fury on reading thi9 article, to which he sent 
the following reply, directed to Karr: 

«It ig dow twenty year* since I was proclaimed the first 
swimmer of the capital, and in that time I have had at lenst ten 
affairs of honor to maintain my nautical supremacy. I whall 
not recoil from the cleveuth one to prove to you, Monsieur, that 
not only am I a strong swimmer, but now, the strongest in 
Paris.” 

It should be known that the author of the 
Gu6pes has transported his hives to Etre-tat. 
Monsieur B. did not hesitate an instant, and for 
fear that his challenge should miss its direction, 
he took the Rouen rail-road and arrived at 
Etre-tat, the Normandy of prawns and lobsters. 
He repaired to the residence of the writer, and 
found that he had left for Paris an hour before. 

Doubly furious, he returned to Paris by the 
same rail-road, ran to the hotel where his adver¬ 
sary had alighted, and sent up to him the “ afore¬ 
said” billet, with these words added, m the form 
of a postscriptum: — 

22 


NICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


” My witnesses will conle In an hour to arrange with yon.” 

An hour afterwards, the two witnesses knocked 
at the door of the celebrated Wasp. All means 
of conciliation having failed, the writer came 
right to the point. 

“ Your day, gentlemen V* 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ The hour? 0 
“Eight o’clock. 0 
“ The place ?” 

“ The Pont Royal. 0 
“Your arms ?” 

“ The River Seine. 0 

The author “went off” in an explosion of 
laughter. “ I understand it is a duel a Veau , 
that you propose ?” 

“ Exactly. Monsieur B. does all his fighting 
by swimming. Neither a sword nof a pistol will 
prove that he is a stronger swimmer, than you— 
by his method doubt will be impossible.” 

“ Fort bien, if it was in the month of August, 
but in the month of November, the glass seven 
degrees below zero !—Does Monsieur take me 
for a marine monster ?” 

“This is his ultimatum. I ought however to 
add that the duel will be followed by an excellent 
dejeuner at Vefour’s, at Monsieur B’s. expense.” 

Alphonse Karr reflected a moment, and thinking 
the whole affair very original, wrote a reply thus 
conceived, to Monsieur B.” 

“I accept your proposition* To-morrow, at night o'clock* 1 
will be with you.” 

The next day, at the hour appointed, the 
author of the Guepes stood before Monsieur B. 

“ You see I am exact.” 

»* Tres bien, exactitude is the politesse of 
writers. One moment, and we will set out to 
fight.” 

And the duelist in deep waters set about pre¬ 
paring his swimming costume. Already had he 
drawn on the garment prescribed by modesty and 
the constitutional charter, when the writer ex¬ 
claimed :— 

“Were you serious in sending me that 
challenge!” 

“ Very serious! what did you come for!” 

“ Parbleu /” replied the other, “to breakfast.” 
“ Then you confess yourself beaten ?” 

“ I will tell you that at the dessert; let us go.’* 
They went out, breakfasted, and the bill was 
paid by Monsieur B., who eat as much as four 
Alphonse Karrs. 

“ Eh bien! now go; you recognise me for a 
swimmer of premiere force ?" 

“You will find my reply in the next number 

of the Guepes.” 

Here it is* 

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186 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


u Ah, well,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, with a sigh, j 
“at the time of which I speak, I was happy; but, j 
to proceed; I soon made up my mind on the sub- 1 
ject, and resolved as soon as propriety admitted to j 
make her an offer in due form of my hand, heart f j 
and fortune. I 

“Time, as a matter of course deepened my at- ] 
tachmeni, and at the expiration of six months 
from our first introduction to each other I made an 
avowal of my sentiments, and sued for a return. 

“ Her answer was every thing my fond heart de¬ 
sired, and with a happiness at heart which may 
be imagined, but not described, I commenced | 
preparations for the reception of my bride in a i 
home, suitable to the exalted ideas I entertained I 
for her, and becoming equally our rank and for- j 
tune. 

“ Of course we were to have a town and country 
residence, furnished in the most magnificent style, 
with equipages to correspond. All this I resolved 
on, without once thinking whether she had a dow- jj 
er or not; which by the by she had not. Indeed ij 
that was a matter of perfect indifference to me. 
My heart was satisfied to the full, in every parti¬ 
cular, and that sufficed. 

“ My resources being ample, all necessary prepa¬ 
rations were soon completed, and the wedding 
day fixed. Oh, Edward, how exquisite was my 
happiness ! my present and future seemed to my 
enraptured view to be one continued scene of en¬ 
chantment—the joys of paradise could alone ex¬ 
press my exstatic thought, for not a cloud ob¬ 
scured the brightness of my mind’s horizon; not 
a shadow rested on the sun-dial that so temptingly 
emblazoned on its shining surface, a destiny which 
my exulting heart marked out as my own life pos¬ 
session. Ah, the anticipations of the young, and 
the enthusiastic, are indeed treacherous! Yet why 
anticipate !”—Mr. St. Aubyn here paused and 
sighed deeply ; his nephew did not make any re¬ 
mark, and after a few moments he again proceed¬ 
ed. “Well, we were married; her parents gave 
her a most magnificent wedding; it was the theme 
of newspaper praise for a week, and Mr. St. Au¬ 
byn was regarded in the same light; in which he 
regarded himself, as being a singularly fortunate 
and happy man, and the accomplished, elegant and 
beauteous bride as being without a comparison. 

“ How my heart exulted as I read the paragraph 
which went on to state that after the princely nup¬ 
tial entertainment, the happy couple took up their 
abode at the residence of the wealthy and distin¬ 
guished bridegroom in Broadway! 

“ Our marriage took place in the depth of win¬ 
ter, so that being at home instead of travelling as 


is usually customary after it, it was incumbent 
on us to celebrate the auspicious event, by a 
series of festivities suitable to the occasion; an<f 
party, ball, and rout, followed each other in quick 
succession, at all of which, whether at home or 
abroad, my wife shone as the ‘ brightest particula r 
star,* and my proud heart swelled at the con¬ 
sciousness, as if it would have bursted with the 
overwhelming sense of its own intoxicating hap* 
piness. I was looking forward, however, to a ces¬ 
sation of these gaieties, as preparation for, and at¬ 
tendance on them, left little time for the enjoy¬ 
ment of that domestic happiness my heart so 
dearly prized, and which contrary to what most 
persons thought of me, I enjoyed above all other 
things. 

“ By degrees, these gay doings ceased, and I an¬ 
ticipated the quiet of domestic life with the char¬ 
acteristic ardor of my disposition, and longed for 
nothing so much as to return of an evening to my 
adored Augusta, to enjoy that sweet uninterrupted 
commune which had often made so large a por¬ 
tion of our happiness in our unwedded days. 
For the Countess had her own engagements, 
the Count and his son theirs, we were left much 
to ourselves, and in the interchange of the most 
exalted sentiments, we passed some of the hap¬ 
piest hours of my existence ; and while listening 
to the ebullitions of her accomplished mind, how 
often would the thought thrill my soul with 
exstacy, of soon calling a being so superior, all my 
own, and of being blessed with a presence whose 
every word was music to my delighted son), 
unchecked by the thought of separation, or in¬ 
terruption of any sort, save that which the 
performance of our duties enjoined; for, en¬ 
thusiast as I was, I knew that these remained 
to us. 

“ My wish was eventually gratified; the winter 
with all its gaities passed away, and we resolved 
to take up our abode early in the spring at our 
country residence. The season was unusually 
beautiful, and on the banks of the lordly Hudson 
behold me and my beauteous bride, inhabiting an 
abode which, for views of romantic and pictu¬ 
resque scenery without, and elegance and refined 
luxury within, stood unequalled in those days in 
this Republican country. The taste displayed in 
every thing, being purely English; rich, chaste, 
and superb as wealth could render it. 

“Ah, Edward, to me it seemed a second para¬ 
dise, and my Eve, lovely as Milton had rendered 
her,—perfect in beauty and matchless in mind, 
secured to me in perspective whole ages of inde¬ 
scribable bliss, and joy unutterable, for 


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AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


173 


“Grace m in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 

And every gesture dignity and love.” 

“Thus love painted her, thus love inflated the 
gay and gallant streamers, that propelled my hap¬ 
py bark o’er a sea of bliss, unbounded as the 
heavens that seemed to smile above our head sat j 
witnessing a happiness so rare upon this troubled , 
and careworn earth. | 

“ I have told you that Augusta was a fine musi- ; 
cian and painter. She was besides a mediocre poet, j 
and our country residence, I soon found was to I 
be the scene for some charming achievement, in | 
some of these branches of art. Of course as she i 
unfolded her plans for this purpose, I was deligh- jj 
ted. A painting room, music room, and library, jj 
were, of course, immediately selected and fur- j 
nished; while I, pleased and gratified, looked on, 
delighted beyond every thing. I 1 

“My business transactions were still carried on j 
in New-York, and I purposed visiting the city j 
about once a week to inspect matters and keep 
them in a proper train. The rest of my time I 
purposed to spend at home, and in the enjoyment 
of that rural happiness so peculiar to an English¬ 
man. I promised myself much. My avocations 
too were laid out. On my estate there was a fine 
lake, well stocked with fish; my pleasure boats 
stood awaiting my use on the ponds or lakelets, 
within the precincts of my extensive domain. 
My gardens for fruit, flowers, and vegetables were 
large and beautifully laid out, so that employ¬ 
ment for my own time presented as great a variety 
as could well ne desired. 

“Meantime, Mrs. St. Aubynhad commenced a 
fine painting. Its subject was a scene hard by. I 
Yes, the painting commenced, and in its execution 
I was soon made to experience the futility and 
falsity of all human anticipations. I have said 
that Mrs. St. Aubyn’s chief view in going into 
the country was to achieve some great designs; 
but when she told me her plans for so doing, I | 
little thought to what an extent they were to be 1 
carried, or the utter loneliness, to which, during 
its achivernent, I was to be consigned. But I 
found it out soon enough to my cost. Study* 
absolutely, absorbed the whole of her time; after 
breakfast she usually went to the painting room, 
and continued to paint’till exhaustion obliged her 
to leave off, and she was obliged to lie down to 
restore her overwrought faculties. We dined at 
five, against which she arose, and in dishevelled 
hair, loose gown, and slippers, she would it is true 
bear me company at the dinner table, but with a j 
mind utterly uninterested in every thing that j 
passed around her. The dinner cloth being j 
removed, after passing the day in sheer loneliness, | 
21 


if the weather was fine I proposed a short drive, a 
walk, to insure myself something in the way of 
companionship. It was sometimes accepted, and 
sometimes rejected—with a coldness too, and indif¬ 
ference, that cut me to the heart. The evening 
hours, thought I, will however, be happy,— 
social enjoyment will at least crown and close the 
dismal solitude of the day. But in this hope 
too, 1 was mistaken. The evenings were to be 
devoted, I found, to reading works on the art she 
was pursuing with such avidity, viz., the perspec¬ 
tive of Daniel Barbaro, Euclid’s Geometry, and a 
list of others which I now forget. After a day 
spent in such severe exercises, of course it will 
not appear strange that she was a late riser. On 
the contrary I was an early one, and I had the 
delectable satisfaction of sitting alone in my soli¬ 
tary breakfast parlor, and driuking my coffee to 
the tune of a worse bachelorhood than I ever 
knew even in my unwedded days; for then I had 
.always plenty of company, if not companions, in 
my fellow boarders, and absolute solitude was a 
rare feeling indeed to one of my imaginative tem¬ 
perament, for when the reality failed to supply a 
companion, my ready fancy sketched a perspec¬ 
tive that most young minds are prone to dwell on, 
and prone to embellish as I had done, only in too 
many instances to be deceived. 

“About eleven o’clock Mis. St. Aubyn arose 
and ordered breakfast to be served in the library. 
Meantime I had strolled off with my fishing-rod, 
and seated on the banks of the lake, sat brooding 
over my wretched happiness, while the blind and 
foolish expectations I had indulged in, goaded me 
almost to madness. My romantic dreams, thought 
I, where are they now ? There is a beautiful and 
touching sadness awakened, when amid the quiet 
scenes of nature, you allow the mind to dwell on 
her stupenduous, magnificent, sweet, and gentle 
attributes, that accorded well with my melancholy 
feelings, and I indulged them to the full. 

“ My fishing ground was centered in a most 
lovely spot; and while waiting to catch my glit¬ 
tering prey, my thoughts oft wandered from what 
appeared their avowed object, and my eye drank 
in the glorious beauty which surrounded me on 
every side. 

vEre the dew was off the grass, I sought my 
accustomed seat; while my better half remained 
locked in the arms of sleep, regardless of those 
beauties which all nature was celebrating with 
anthems of praise, to the great Architect of the 
universe. The peculiar freshness of the morning 
air, the song of birds, the genial rays of the newly 
risen sun, the ripple of the murmuring waters. 


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174 


AN ENGLISHMAN IN AMERICA. 


the waving foliage, and the distant sounds of rural j| 
industry, made a scene of enjoyment, which, with 
companionship, would have formed an Elysium for 
my soul. But as it was, I had to bait my hook 
and muse away my lonely day as best I might. 
My wretchedness had not yet got to its height. 

I still cheated myself into a belief that i was be¬ 
loved, and that this neglect of my happiness 
would cease with the completion of what my 
heart denominated that hated picture. 

“At the expiration of a week, however, my j 
solitude was broken by a visit from my wife’s 
brother and a gentleman of his and my acquain¬ 
tance. This intelligence was the most delight¬ 
ful I had heard for days; and I almost felt that 
I could have embraced the negro boy that brought 
it to the scene of my daily sport. When I had 
just had the satisfaction of drawing out of the 
water a fine fish, which, with some others I had 
caught, I desired the boy to take back and get 
cooked for dinner. 

“I gave my visitors a cordial welcome you 
may be sure; and then fled to Mrs. St. Aubyn’s 
painting room to impart the news of their arrival 
to her; imagining she also would feel delighted. 
But it was quite the contrary; she was annoyed 
beyond measure, and absolutely taunted me with 
having no respect for her feelings, by showing by 
my aspect so much foolish pleasure at this, to 
her, at least, great interruption. She then asked 
me how I liked her picture ? It was impossible 
not to admire both the design and the execution 
so far as it had been done, and I praised it accor¬ 
dingly. This seemed to put her in good humor, 
and as I left the room, she promised to prepare 
herself to see them. 

“I went into the kitchen from there, to give 
orders for the dinner;—for my lady wife seemed 
to have given up all thoughts of such matters, 
since she had commenced painting, and it is pro¬ 
bable if 1 had not attended to this necessary part 
of our existence myself, to my other annoyances 
I should also have added this. 

“‘Why, St. Aubyn, how miserable you look,’ 
was the exclamation of both my guests, as I 
reentered the parlor. ‘And such a beautiful 
place too, by George, it’s a perfect paradise.’ 

“ ‘ Do you like it ?’ said I, evading their first 
observation, about my looks. 

“ ‘ Like it? why, who upon earth could miss 
liking such a lovely scene as this, that had any 
taste at all? But how in the name of fortune 
do you contrive to kill time ? However, a 
moment’s reflection, might have informed me on 
that point, and rendered the question quite 
superfluous. A man who has just passed the 


honey-moon with the society of a lovely wife, 
must find the hours flying on angels’ wings—nay, 
such a thing as time entirely forgotten.’ 

“ This he said, I thought, in a drawling, 
ironical tone. But though his words elicited a 
heavy sigh, which I smothered ere it escaped 
me, I made no other reply than that I killed time 
every day by killing fish. 

“ This called forth a hearty laugh, and a chal¬ 
lenge to see my fishing ground. To this I 
readily consented ; and I sallied forth with my 
friends forthwith to view it. 

“ The gentleman who accompanied Le Roux, 
was a fine handsome fellow; we had long been 
on terms of intimacy, but having been absent for 
eighteen months from New-York, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn had never seen him. He returned just 
before we left for the country. I introduced him 
to her brother one day, and invited him to come 
out with him to see us, and agreeably to my 
invitation they then came. 

“ The dinner was on the table at four that day, 
and for the first time since my arrival, Mrs. St. 
Aubyn was full dressed to grace it. I think I 
never saw her look so beautiful, as she did that 
day. And a quick glance at my friend showed 
that he thought so too. Our cook had exerted 
himself to the utmost, and the dinner was well 
cooked and handsomely served up: so that 
nothing detracted from the perfect enjoyment of 
the day on that score. The conversation too, 
took a delightful turn, we were all in spirits, 
Augusta among the rest. Rivers (the name of 
my friend,) admired her paintings decorating the 
walls, with, I thought, a degree of extravagance 
quite uncalled tor. But she was enchanted. 
Oh, woman, this is one of thy foibles! He saw 
that praise gratified her, and he plied it deeply, 
accordingly. She then told him how she had 
been engaged ; and he as a matter of course, 
asked to see the product of her genius, and rallied 
me on my barbarous taste of killing fish from day 
to day, while my wife was engaged in such an 
elevated and refined employment; that for his 
part, he should think I required no greater hap¬ 
piness than preparing colors, and watching her 
fairy fingers, as they so fitfully glided over the 
canvass, converting everything they touched into 
beauty almost inimitable. 

“ I might have answered this gallant effusion, 
by saying that my wife required uninterrupted 
seclusion, during hrer hours of study, and that 
even if I had been so minded, her wishes to be 
alone had been so clearly expressed that I had 
never, even in thought, ventured an intrusion into 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS PROM LONDON. 


175 


her studio; but I did not, imagining that she 
would. 

44 She did not, however, and there the subject 
dropped; not, as I afterwards found, though, 
without a secret meaning. The apparently neg¬ 
lectful husband was a theme that suited their 
purpose well; but I must not anticipate. 

“From this time my monotonous solitude 
was over; Rivers came continually to our house, 
often staying days and nights in succession. 

“ One change for the better was wrought by it. 
Mrs. St. Aubyn’s habits underwent a decided 
improvement; she rose early and proposed taking 
romantic walks before breakfast with her dear 
Henry, and Mr. Rivers; and afterwards taking a 
sail on the lake; then painting about an hour 
before an early dinner; then taking a drive after, 
and finishing the evening with music! I had, 
besides, no longer any reason to complain of the 
carelessness of my wife’s attire. Her appearance 
would now have satisfied the most fastidious. 
She moved and looked enchantment, and her 
dearest Henry could no longer complain either 
of neglect or indifference to his happiness. My 
wife was now indeed a pattern for wives; and 
my heart began once more to reckon on its 
mines of future happiness. Rivers, too, aided 
the deception, by constantly rallying my good 
fortune, in getting such a paragon of perfection 
for a wife. And I was again a proud and happy 
man; wondering how I ever could have been | 
otherwise. Our country visit, or rather sojourn, 
proceeded in this manner to its close; and early i 
in the autumn we took up our abode in town. 

[ To be continued.] | 

Original. 

SONNET TO- 

BT J. A. MAYBIE. j 


Friend of my heart! when youth with me is o’er, 
And madly battling in Ambition’s throng, 

On mountain-passes of the crown’d and strong, 
Marshall'd to music haughtier than the roar 
Of storms, that bids the fiery eagle soar; 

My manhood too must feel each base-born wrong— 
The sickness of the soul, when hate that long 
"Wore fairest guise, snake-like its crest uprears ; 

Suspicion then, with its dark lore will come, 

In open brow and smile a lure to see, 

And say that honor, loftiness and worth, 

Found never y« t in human breast a home. 

How will the “ damning doubt” my spirit flee, 

A* plastic memory gives thy image birth! 


Original. 

SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM 
LONDON.— Number vi. 

BY MRS. E. R. STEELE. 

A VISIT TO CHATSWORTH AND SHEFFIELD. 

Chatsworth is the name of a large domain 
and elegant seat, of the Duke of Devonshire, one 
of England’s most refined, tasteful and wealthy 
noblemen. It is a pleasant morning drive from 
Sheffield, and while we are on our way thither 
perhaps it may be well to say a few words 
regarding the ancestors of the present owner. 
The nobles of England care not to date further 
back than William, the Conqueror, and accor¬ 
dingly we find the genealogical title of the present 
j family date from Roger de Gernon, a knight who 
ventured his all, and risked his life in the expedi¬ 
tion which placed William on the English throne, 
and was richly rewarded for his services by con¬ 
siderable grants of land in 1066. One of his 
descendants married into the family of the Lords 
of Cavendish manor in Suffolk, and according to 
the fashion of those times his sons took the name 
of Cavendish. This name the family have borne 
ever since, and borne with honor. They have 
figured in the history of England as statesmen, 
orators, philosophers, Lords Lieutenant of Ire¬ 
land, Privy Councillors, and in many other 
situations of trust and honor. By marriage 
many noble families have been allied with them, 
and great estates added to their domains. One 
of them, Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, married the 
Duke of Lenox, uncle of James I. Sir Thomas 
Cavendish the celebrated navigator, was of this 
family; and also Henry, the famous chemist. 
They also claim royal descent, through Charles 
Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married the 
princess Mary, daughter of Henry VII., and 
widow of Louis XII. They were created Earls 
of Devonshire in the reign of James I. . William, 
the fourth Earl first became Duke in conse¬ 
quence of services during the revolution of 1688. % 
Thus we see two of the family conspicuous in 
placing two Williams on the throne of England, 
and for these and other services rewarded with 
the rich estates they hold. Sir William Caven¬ 
dish purchased Chatsworth at the commence¬ 
ment of the sixteenth century,—and there his 
descendants have since lived, each one adding a 
new beauty, until it is the superb domain now 
before us. The first entrance to the estate is 
through a gate into a small hamlet, consisting of 
antique thatched cottages, covered with moss; 
and a small inn, in front of which, swung a sign 


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176 


SUMMER EXCURSIONS PROM LONDON. 


representing the Duke’s arms. From thence, 
our drive continued through the farm to another 
village, in which stood conspicuous the fine old 
Gothic church of St. Peter. There are here 
interesting tablets and monuments of the Caven¬ 
dish family. At a short distance are the grand 
gates and lodge of the park. As it is against the 
rules for the hundreds of visitors who come to 
see the place, to drive their carriages over the 
smooth roads of the park, we dismounted at a 
handsome inn, built for the accommodation of 
visitors, by the late Duke. We enter now the 
park. This comprises twelve hundred and 
eighty acres, including four hundred and twenty 
woodland. Our first view of the house and 
surrounding scenery was superb. Around us 
stretched an English park, covering the gently 
rolling land with a carpet of bright tinted soft 
green turf,—upon which copses and groves of 
trees were arranged with the finest taste. In the 
centre arose the princely towers of Chatsworth, 
encircled by hills covered with farms and wood¬ 
lands, ending in the high, bold Peaks of Derby. 
The small river Derwent winds through the 
grounds, over which are several picturesque 
bridges, adding to the beauty of the scene. As 
we passed along we could not but admire the 
velvet sward, the grass of which is cut, swept 
with brooms, and afterwards rolled so that [it is 
literally as smooth as a carpet. This gives em¬ 
ployment to many poor men and women. Herds 
of deer were reposing upon this soft mossy lawn, 
or browsing beneath the shade. We cross 
another bridge, and behold before us 

11 -proud Chatsworth’s towers. 

Reflect Sol’s Betting rays«-^as now yon chain 

Of gold-tipped mountains crown her lawns and bowers.” 

The building is formed of several parts and wings, 
surrounding a court in the centre. Before us 
was the west part, which is one hundred and 
seventy-two feet in length. It is adorned by 
pilasters of the Ionic order. High over the 
centre are the arms of Cavendish carved and 
gilded. This heraldric device consists of two 
harts supporting a coronet, with the motto,— 
** Cavendo tutus ”—a play upon the name, 
meaning, Secure with caution, or Secure under 
Cavendish, Gilded sashes and gilded balconies 
give a rich air to this front, which opens on a 
long terrace-walk and small garden. A grand 
arch, in which are gates of wrought iron 
encircled with gilded flowers, leads into the 
court on the north end. In front, and at our 
left, is the building itself, while on our right runs 
a walk surmounted by a stone balustrade, adorned 
with carved vases. Doors in this, lead to the 
terrace. 


From this court we entered the grand hall, 
whose magnificence is extraordinary. It is paved 
with white and black marble, surrounded by mar¬ 
ble columns, between massive tablets of marble, 
supported with frames carved and gilded. On 
one of these lay a book, in which we were 
requested to write our names. From this ball a 
stone stair-case leads to a corridor running round 
above, the balustrade of which and the stairs are 
gilded. The sides of the stair-way are covered 
with slabs of pink and white alabaster, while the 
wall of the corridor, ceiling and hall are painted 
in glowing colors, representing scenes from 
Roman story and mythology. Ascending the 
stairs we pass into a suite of magnificent apart¬ 
ments, where every thing which taste, wealth and 
art can produce is lavished. Some of the rooms 
are lined with exquisite gobelin tapestry, repre¬ 
senting in brilliant tints the cartoons of Raphael: 
others are covered with stamped leather highly 
gilded. Ancient inlaid cabinets, cases of rare 
marbles, articles of Virtu and fine old paintings, 
adorn these rooms. The walls and ceilings of 
many are painted by Verrio and Laguerre and 
Sir Janies Thornhill in allegorical devices. In 
one apartment are the thrones and footstools 
used at the coronation of George III., and his 
Queen, which the perquisites of the late Duke, 
as Lord Chamberlain. There is one dining¬ 
room fifty-seven feet by thirty. The walls are 
lined with alabaster, let into which are mirrors 
with gilt mouldingsthe door-frames are ol the 
same elegant material beautifully carved. The 
windows have only two panes each of plate-glass, 
which give them the air of being entirely open, 
and bring at once before us the exquisite scenery 
of the parks. In one view we take in the velvet 
lawns which are set with silver lakes of diffe¬ 
rent forms; while mixed with the foliage are 
white statues and glowing parterres; and beyond 
all a foaming cataract descending the wooded 
hill. Through drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, 
music-rooms, apartments of state, we now passed, 
while the eye was unable to take in the mass of 
rich adornment, of paintings, sculpture, vases, 
porphyry, cabinets of fossils, and tasteful furniture 
which decorate these gilded walls. One species 
of adornment from its novelty and beauty 
attracted our notice; this was the cedar carving 
of Grinlin Gibbons. Over the door-ways, or 
suspended above the mantels, we beheld wreaths 
of flowers, carved from cedar-wood, so exqusitely 
finished that every delicate petal or stamtn was 
faithfully delineated. In some rooms we saw 
groups of dead game of this same material, 
where each feather was in its place; and some 


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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


177 


enclosed in net game-bags so naturally carved as 
to deceive the eye at a little distance. 

The Library is a noble room of over eighty 
feet in length. The collection of books is very 
good, and in it is the chemical apparatus of Henry 
Cavendish. In the recesses of the deep windows 
are cases of books with looking-glass doors, and 
on one side of the room is a gallery supported by 
bronze columns; and in this apartment you 
enter the cabinet library and the ante-library. 

These classic nooks we may suppose the 
favorite retreats of the philosopher Hobbs, who 
here lived many years under the patronage of the 
Cavendish family, and who here wrote his M De 
Mirabilis Peed.” In one of these window- 
recesses also, probably St. Evremond wrote to 
Waller, while looking forth upon scenery which 
he describes as being more romantic than any 
thing he had seen, “ except the region about 
Valois.” 

The centre, however, of all magnificence and 
taste is the sculpture-gallery. We found our¬ 
selves in a lofty room one hundred and three 
feet long, where we beheld in life-like groups a 
noble assembly of heroic, manly forms, and beings 
of etherial loveliness. Here were master-pieces 
by various sculptors.—Briseis torn from Achilles, 
by Thorswaldsen ;—Latona and her children, by 
Pozzi,—Cupid wounded, by Trentanova,—Castor 
and Pollux, by Schadow, etc. These and many 
others, however, we turned from to contemplate 
the soft and pleasing forms of Canova. Of these, 
Hebe is a lovely creation; and the mother of 
Napoleon a finely executed figure; but in 
Pauline, the Corsican’s favorite sister, is united 
all the sculptor’s finest traits. The Princess 
Borghese is seated, gazing upon a portrait of 
Napoleon, which she holds in her band. So 
graceful is her position, so exquisitely perfect is 
her delicate head and her arms, and so touching 
the expression of sisterly devotion, that we again 
and again turn from the Venus and goddesses 
around us to gaze upon her once more. There 
are many fine busts, vases, urns and other rare 
pieces of sculpture, in this apartment. Among 
the most conspicuous of these are two fine lions 
of marble, each nine feet long. The Picture- 
galleries surrounded a court of the castle opening 
into which are lofty windows, with gilded balco¬ 
nies. Here were chef d’oeuvres of many masters, 
and portraits of the family. The chapel is a 
very interesting part of the building. It is on the 
first floor, and we enter it from a door in the hall. 
Here carving, painting and sculpture are lavished 
to form an apartment of extraordinary richness. 
The wall* are lined with cedar, the panels of 


which are surrounded by carved wreaths such 
as I have described before. The pulpit stands 
in a large niche, which with the canopy over 
it, are of the beautiful pink and white alabaster 
of Derbyshire, carved in scrolls and flowers. 
Paintings by Laguerre and Verrio adorn the va¬ 
cant spaces, and on the ceiling is painted the As- 
scension. A row of chairs against the wall are for 
the tenants, while the Duke and his family sit in 
a gallery above, which opens from the apartments 
on the upper story. From thence we pass into 
the fragrant orangery, which is one hundred feet 
long, is covered by a glass roof, and lighted be¬ 
sides by large windows. Bas-reliefs by Thors¬ 
waldsen and superb vases of granite and marble 
adorn the apartment, which is filled with large 
orange trees and flowering plants. Some of these 
orange trees possess peculiar interest, for they 
stood once in Malmaison, and were cherished by 
the fair hand of Josephine. We stept out now 
into the perfumed air of the gardens and pleasure 
grounds which extend over eight acres of land, 
where amid shrubbery, fountains, cascades and 
flowers, one is never tired with wandering. The 
Duke has just built a new conservatory, which 
does credit to his taste and magnificence. It is 
three hundred feet long, two hundred and eighty 
broad, entirely covered with glass, so as to look at 
a distance,—to use a homely figure—like a huge 
glass bowl. Within is a path, where one may 
drive among fruits and flowers, the choicest of 
many lands. Water is led through it by pipes 
passing in every direction filled with heated air. 
To give an idea of the vastness of this perfumed 
bower, the gardener told us these pipes measure 
seven miles. The kitchen garden alone covers 
several acres, and has in it numerous hot houses 
where are reared all kinds of fruit, sent by relays 
to the Duke who is now in Paris, and who every 
day eats strawberries and grapes or pines from his 
own conservatories. A melancholy interest i3 
attached to Chatsworth as having once been the 
abode of Mary of Scotland for sixteen years. A 
small tower is still standing on the grounds called 
Mary’s bower, the garden of which washer favorite 
resort. There are apartments in this house 
shown as her’s, but probably only stand on their 
site, as the bouse has been rebuilt. A bed and 
tapestry still remain which were in her room, and 
some of her needle work is preserved. She was 
here under the care of the celebrated Bess of 
Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury, who ren¬ 
dered her imprisonment more irksome by her in¬ 
triguing and restless disposition. Lodge, an Eng¬ 
lish writer, says of her.—“ She was a woman of 
masculine understanding and conduct, proud, 

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SUMMER EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. 


furious selfish and unfeeling. She was a builder, factories, where the rough ore is turned into 
a buyer and seller of estates, a money-lender, a glittering steel. We were also struck with the 
farmer, a merchant of lead coals, and timber.” enormous extent to which this business is carried 
She left her large estates to her descendants im- by this firm, whose numerous furnace houses 
proved and rendered of great value. The present appear so tnany villages,—for whose forges, the 
Duke has imitated this lady in her taste and her whole production of one iron mine is required, 
improvements, but alas! he enjoys not, with her, and whose ware houses and offices are found in 
the happiness of reflecting that he is working for the principal cities of Europe and the United 
his descendants, for he has no children and may States. Every thing is done by the benevolent 
never hope to marry. The Duke’s history is a heads of this great house, to render their work- 
romantic one, and is said to have been taken by men’s lives as happy as is possible. Their houses 
Miss Edgeworih as the plot of the Eunui. He are given them rent free and coal allowed them, 
is a changeling. The circumstances are very A sick fund has been raised from which, by the 
little known, but it is understood he is son of a payment of sixpence a month, the sick can draw 
courier, whose wife while nursing the real heir money when they cannot work. An attention to 
substituted her child for it. It is said the Duke gardening is encouraged, and the dingy workman 
is allowed to retain possession of the estates dui- sees his lowly hut bright with the clustering rose, 
ing life, with the proviso of not marrying, so that the primrose or dahlia—and the ale house is 
that there may not be trouble among the heirs, deserted for the spade and rake. Oh, that more 
He is highly educated and refined, and under of such men dwelt among earth’s laborers! 
George, the Fourth, held high offices at court, Sheffield is situated at the confluence of the 

and is universally admired. Don and the Sheaf. Its principal trade is in iron 

On our return to our inn we visited a fancy and steel, the smoke of whose forges is seen ever 
village built by the Duke in his park. The houses ascending. Its cutlery has been celebrated since 
are all of light stone, built in pretty gothic style* the earliest ages of British history. A cutlers’ 
and grouped around a handsome church, em- society is formed in it, composed of the highest 
bowered in lime trees. Here at a very small rent manufacturers, by whose counsel all works are 
live some of the Duke’s favorite tenants. It is a judged and condemned if false, to be destroyed in 
very pretty and princely plaything. a public place. Frauds in the trade consequently 

While in Sheffield we visited some of these are few. The master cutler is, also, mayor of 
wonderful shops which supply all the world with i the city. 

their shining cutlery. There are several good churches and public 

In the rooms of the Messrs. Rogers, we were j buildings in Sheffield. Among them are Trinity 
shown the choicest specimens of their workman- church, St. George’s,—the Town Hall, Cutlers’ 
ship in steel, silver and gold. Here we passed j Hall, and many others. Sheffield has produced 
through numerous rooms, filled with cases con- j two celebrated poets. The verses of Ebenezer 
taining every requisite for the most luxurious Elliot, the corn-law rhymer, are in keeping with 
bouse, for the toilette, the table, or a ladies work- I a trading city; but how the spiritual Montgomery 
stand,—finished in the most perfect manner. In could elevate his thoughts from amidst the din 
penknives they stand unrivalled, and exhibit spe- I of machinery and smoke of forges is a wonder, 
cimens from a quarter of an inch long to that ' This surprise is increased when one looks into 
triumph of mechanism, the monster of eighteen j; the humble dwelling where he wrote most of bi9 
hundred and forty two blades. Upon a mantle | earliest works. This was shown us by the kind- 
of one of the rooms we were shown a large and j! ness of a literary friend. His window opens into 
beautifully wrought vase of gold. This was pre- | a wretched alley, where herde some of the poorest 
sented to the Messrs. Rogers by their workmen, j of the population, and amid the yelling of dirty 
as a testimony of their gratitude for the uniform | children quarrelling over their cold meat bones, 
liberality and kindness shown them for many 1 his soul was able to wander to the finest scenes 
years past,—some of the white slaves probably of of earth and to the shining courts above, 
which many newspapers make so much capital. The scenery in the environs of Sheffield is 
To these gentlemen this must be the brighest very beautiful. There the eye roves over 
ornament of their rooms. The steel used in this gently rolling hills covered with luxuriant farms 
establishment is from the forges of the celebrated and gardens, among which rise the loftly man- 
house of Sanderson, Brothers & Co. We were I sions of the ‘merchant princes’ of the city, one 
afterwards indebted to one of the firm for a long ' of these being at present our own luxurious and 
and interesting examination of these steel raanu- ! hospitable home. Sheffield has also been cele- 


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THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


179 


brated in romance. In the city and its vicinity 
are laid some of the scenes of Ivanhoe and Peve- 
ril of the Peak. Conisborough castle now in 
ruins, was the home of Cedric, the Saxon, and 
the ruin near Castleton, the residence of the 
redoubted Peveril. On the road to Chatsworth 
we cross the moorland, which is a tract of land 
covered with dark boggy ground, upon which 
nothing will grow. This is kept by the noble¬ 
men who own the land as game preserves. The 
dark hilly masses of this uneven tract alternate 
with gloomy ravines, making often picturesque 
scenes. Sheffield and its environs have always 
been the property of some of England’s noblest 
families. Here have lived the Furnivals, Nevils, 
De Buslis, Talbots and Howards. The redoubted 
Saxon earl, Waltheof, son of Siward the Dane, 
and leader of the armies of Edward the confessor, 
here held his proud sway before the conquest. 
Long did he struggle against the Norman con¬ 
queror, but in vain. He afterwards married the 
celebrated Countess Judith, niece of the con- 
querer’s, who is designated by a historian of the 
day, by the undesirable appellation af impiissima 
Jezebel. The high souled Waltheof, we all know, 
afterwards revolted and was beheaded. The iron 
works and mines of Sheffield can be traced back 
to the Britons, since which time the trade has 
been rapidly improving. The arrival of several 
artizans from the Netherlands in fifteen hundred 
and seventy, contributed to their improvement, 
and now in their present perfection they stand 
alone and unrivalled. 


Original. 

SONG. 

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 


The Ladye was lovely, the Ladye was young 
And pride curled her lips as she merrily sung: 

I have now thee to love me, all cold as thou art, 

I have now thee to love me, untameable heart. 

For this every joy of my life has been given, 

For this I have risked every promise of heaven:— 
I have now thee to love mo;—I hold thee in thrall, 
And the sight of thy bondage repays me for all. 


I have now thee to love me. untameable heart,— 

I have now thee to love me, and now,—let us part! 
Thou may’st throw off my fetters in haughty disdain, 
But the scar and the aching must ever remain: 

My toils may seem frail as the wood-spider’s net, 

But Love’s spell is upon thee,—thou canst not forget. 


O r i f i n a I. 

THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, 

OR, GOSSIP. 


Under this title we propose to keep our readers 
acquainted with so much of the manners and 
moral of Parisian life, as we may deem most 
interesting to them to know and most proper to 
appear in a publication of our character, popula¬ 
rity and standing. 

We do not know that any philosopher, ancient 
or modern, dead or living, has said that much 
truth and knowledge of life may be gathered from 
an anecdote, bon mot, or saying. Has no philo¬ 
sopher said this ? Then we say it, and now to 
illustrate our meaning. 

The Composer Pradher who died in the month 
of November last at Paris was an eminent musi¬ 
cian. The opera comique was indebted to him 
for many a pleasant piece. At the age of sixteen he 
married the famous Philedor, and at his second 
nuptials Mademoiselle More, a charming actress 
of the old Freydeau. At the time of the consu¬ 
late, Pradher, then very young, was yet a pianist 
of great merit. Garat, who liked him very much, 
charged himself with the care of his tuition and 
fortune. He introduced him to several elegant 
salons; and one day—about the time of the com¬ 
mencement of the Empire—the celebrated singer 
having been invited to sing at a concert given at 
the Tuileries, asked and obtained permission to 
take Pradher with him as accompanist. 

Garat had already had the honor of singing 
several times before his majesty; but Pradher 
had never been present at such a fete. This 
occasion was oue then of the most magnificent 
importance to him, and he was proud at the idea 
of making his debut at court. Full of ardor and 
impatience, the young pianist repaired to the resi¬ 
dence of his protccteur long before the appointed 
time, and found Garat at his mirror folding his 
twelfth cravat to essay a new tie. 
j “ Vous voila already!” exclaimed the illustri¬ 
ous singer. “ Ah ! mon ami, I shall make a 
sensation this evening.” 

“ I do not doubt it,” Pradher replied, “you 
always do.” 

“ But this time more than ever; I shall make 
a thundering impression.” 

“ Everything is possible to a voice like yours.” 

“ You are wide of the mark, ray friend,” replied 
Garat; “lam not speaking of my voice, but re¬ 
ferring to my toilette. Look at me. What do you 
think of this coiffure ? How do you like this vest ? 


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THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 


What is your opinion of this frock, the cut of 
which I planned myself?’* 

From a weakness, of which we find more than 
one example among great artists, Garat thought 
more of his reputation as a dandy, than of his 
success as a singer; he liked much better to be 
praised for the elegance of his costume, than for 
the exqnisite charm of his voice: Pradher, who 
knew his weakness, humoured him. 44 It is per¬ 
fect,” said he, “ admirable, ravishing, nothing is 
wanting, and now, that your toilette is finished, 
what are we waiting for ? 

“ We are waiting ’till they come for me,” 
replied Garat: 44 it is the custom.” Etiquette 
prohibits me from presenting myself at the Tuile- 
ries. One of the hushers of the Chateau will be 
here presently to take me in an imperial carriage.” 

An instant after, as Garat had said, an cnvoyt 
of the Tuileries presented himself to conduct the 
illustrious singer to the court concert. 

“ The coach is below,” said he respectfully. 
Garat passed out first, proud and superb; Prad¬ 
her followed him slowly, but full of hope and joy. 
They descended the stairs, they arrived at the 
carriage entrance, and Garat uttered a cry of sur¬ 
prise and indignation. 

“ What is that! a hackney coach ?—a vile 
sapin , for me! This is something new. They 
used to send for me in a court carriage.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” replied the messenger, 44 but 
this being the occasion of a grand gala, all the 
carriages are employed elsewhere.” 

“Vexation! ” screamed the vocalist; “but a 
man of my position cannot go in a hackney 
coach.” 

“ There are no means of acting otherwise this 
time.” 

“ Oh yes there are, and very simple ones; I 
won’t go to the concert at all.” 

44 You are joking! You are expected, you are 
down on the programme; his majesty relies upon 
you; I have been ordered to conduct you, and I 
shall obey orders.” 

“ Do you mean to use violence ?” 

The envoys did not say so, but looked as if he 
intended to carry out his mission cavalierly by 
taking Garat by the shoulders and forcing him to 
enter the hackney coach. 

44 Ah, it is so, is it!” exclaimed the singer, at 
the threat of violence, “you absolutely must 
repair to the chateau ? Eh bien! perhaps.” 

Saying this, he threw himself not into the 
coach, but into the gutter, thrust into the mud 
his legs so delicately chaussees in white silk 
stockings, heroically splashed his ravishing toi¬ 
lette ; then soiled from head to foot, he presented 


himself before the surprised envoys, and then 
said to him in an accent full of passion and irony. 

44 I am ready to follow you, Monsieur; con¬ 
duct me to the concert of the Tuileries.” 

It was necessary to yield, and on this occasion 
the Imperial auditory was fain to get along with¬ 
out the charming vocalist! Garat was triumphant, 
but his unfortunate accompanist was in despair. 

The commencement and the close of the ball 
season are always signalized by numerous mar¬ 
riages in the Grand Monde. At the beginning 
of last month, there was celebrated in the church 
de la Madeleine one of those unions which have 
been quite a la-mode in our time—a marriage at 
once aristocratic and financial, aristocratic on the 
part of the husband, financial on that of the wife. 
We like to see nobility and cash lending each 
other a helping hand and professing devotion and 
fidelity. The bride was the daughter of Mods. 

II-, an old banker of Marseilles who died 

a little while since leaving an immense fortune. 
Several anecdotes were circulated at the nuptial 
cortege among others the following, which con¬ 
cerns one of our most distinguished poets. 

Enriched by honorable speculations, Monsr. 

R- made a good use of his immense fortune; 

He loved literature, which he had cultivated in 
his youth; he loved the society of artists and 
writers of merit; he welcomed them always with 
empressement , and often encouraged them with 
largesse. 

Mery, the Poet, arrived at Marseilles’; shun¬ 
ning the rigors of a Parisian winter, he went to 
sun himself in the mild rays of his natal sky. 
To celebrate his arrival, the banker gave a 
splendid dinner, at which 44 assisted” all the nota¬ 
bilities of the city. Charming conversation 
and lively sallies circulated round the table 
during the repast; then, when the greater pari 
of the guests had retired and there remained in 
the salon but a few intimate friends, the conver¬ 
sation took a more familiar turn, a more expan¬ 
sive one, and Monsieur R. said to (he author: 

44 My dear Mery, like most poets, you think 
but little of the future ; it is for your friends to 
think for you, and I charge myself with that task. 
Do not be uneasy, but give way fearlessly to your 
happiest inspirations.” 

To prove that these were not empty words, 
the banker opened a secretary and took from it a 
paper, which he unfolded— 

44 See here,” said he, “ this is a codicil to my 
will, by which I have left you a legacy of a 
hundred thousand francs.” 

A flattering murmur welcomed this act of 


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THE PARISIAN CHRONICLER, OR GOSSIP. 195 


generosity, and the poet after having properly 
expressed his gratitude, observed to the banker 
that his property belonged to his children, and 
then declared that he would not accept the 
legacy. It was in vain for Monsieur R. to say 
that each of his children would be millionaires 
twice over, and that a bagatelle of a hundred 
thousand francs was of no importance to them. 
The poet wa9 obstinate in his refusal, and to put 
an end to the struggle, which threatened to be a 
long one, he made himself master of the codicil 
and tore it up, with the best grace in the world. 

Shortly after this scene, Monsieur R. died. 

This event caused a great sensation in the 
city, and a general mourning. On the day of the 
burial, our poet, who is the chilliest fellow in 
Europe, was sittiug close by his fire-side, his feet 
upon the bars, when one of his friends entered, 
and said to him in a mournful tone— 

44 Ah ! if you had but accepted that legacy—” 

“Eh bien!” replied the poet, in the same 
tone, “ did it not look like inspiration ?” 

44 How ?” cried his friend. 

“Certainly,” replied M£ry, “look at the 
weather we have to-day ; frightfully cold and 
villanously misty. If I had accepted that legacy 
I should not have been able to dispense with 
going to the funeral, and should bate infallibly 
caught cold.” 

Monsieur Alphonse Karr, in one of the last 
numbers of his Gutpcs , (Wasps,) said, “Mon¬ 
sieur B——, author of a treatise on swimming, 
is a fort nageur , (swimmer,) but not a nageur 
de pentiere force.” 

Now Monsieur B. pretends that he is the first 
triton in France and Navarre. Great then was 
his fury on reading this article, to which he sent 
the following reply, directed to Karr: 

“It is now twenty years since I was proclaimed the first 
swimmer of the capital, and in that time I huve had at least tan 
affairs of honor to maiutain my nautical supremacy. I shall 
not recoil from the eleventh one to prove to you. Monsieur, that 
not only am 1 a strong swimmer, but now, the strongest in 
Paris." 

It should be known that the author of the 
Guepes has transported his hives to Etre-tat. 
Monsieur B. did not hesitate an instant, and for 
fear that his challenge should miss its direction, 
he took the Rouen rail-road and arrived at 
Etre-tat, the Normandy of prawns and lobsters. 
He repaired to the residence of the writer, and 
found that he had left for Paris an hour before. 

Doubly furious, he returned to Paris by the 
same rail-road, ran to the hotel where his adver¬ 
sary had alighted, and sent up to him the “ afore¬ 
said” billet, with these words added, in the form 
of a postscriptum: — 

22 4 


“ My witnesses will come in an hour to arrange with yon." 

An hour afterwards, the two witnesses knoeked 
at the door of the celebrated Wasp. All means 
of conciliation having failed, the writer came 
right to the point. 

“ Your day, gentlemen V* 

“To-morrow.” 

“ The hour ?” 

“Eight o’clock." 

“ The place ?” 

“ The Pont Royal." 

“Your arms ?” 

“ The River Seine.” 

The author “ went off” in an explosion of 
laughter. “ I understand it is a duel d Veau , 
that you propose ?” 

“ Exactly. Monsieur B. does all his fighting 
by swimming. Neither a sword nor a pistol will 
prove that he is a stronger swimmer, than you— 
by his method doubt will be impossible.” 

“ Fort bien, if it was in the month of August* 
but in the month of November, the glass seven 
degrees below zero!—Does Monsieur take me 
for a marine monster?” 

44 This is his ultimatum. I ought however to 
add that the duel will be followed by an excellent 
dejeuner at Vefour’s, at Monsieur B’s. expense.” 

Alphonse Karr reflected a moment, and thinking 
the whole affair very original, wrote a reply thus 
conceived, to Monsieur B.” 

“ I accept your proposition* To-morrow, at eight o'clock* 1 
will bo with you." 

The next day, at the hour appointed, the 
author of the Guepes stood before Monsieur B. 

“ You see I am exact.” 

“ Tres bien, exactitude is the politesse of 
writers. One moment* and we will set out to 
fight.” 

And the duelist in deep waters set about pre¬ 
paring his swimming costume. Already had he 
drawn on the garment prescribed by modesty and 
the constitutional charter, when the writer ex¬ 
claimed :— 

“Were you serious in sending me that 
challenge!” 

“ Very serious! what did you come for!" 

“ Parbleu!” replied the other, “to breakfast." 

“ Then you confess yourself beaten ?” 

“ I will tell you that at the dessert; let us go.” 
They went out, breakfasted, and the bill was 
paid by Monsieur B., who eat as much as four 
Alphonse Karrs. 

“ Eh bien ! now go ; you recognise me for a 
swimmer of premiere, force ?” 

“You will find my reply in the next number 
of the Gudpes.” 

Here it is* 


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THE ROBBER IN 


“boots. 


>* 


“Erratum. —It was by mistake that in the las 
number of the Guepes, my compositor made me 
say in speaking of Monsieur B., 4 He is a fort 
nagcur, but is not a nageur dc primiere force.' I 
wrote ou the contrary, * He is not a strong 
swimmer , but is a mangeur ( eater f dc premiere 
force.' " 


O r i f i n a I. 

TO - 


i. 

Go bid thy heart in silence brood 
O’er all the memories of the past, 
And draw from out the solitude 
A pang that cannot choose but last. 


II. 

High hopes were mine—their wings I clipped, 
And curbed them to the earth for thee 1 
And golden dreams, whose curtains dipped 
Their shadowy fringes in the sea, 


III. 

I rudely rent to give thee room, 

With thy cold, disenchanting eve, 
Beside my heart; and bade the gloom 
Lighter upon thy heart to lie. 


IV. 

Whole troops of bright undying forms— 
My ministering angels—fled apace, 
Affrighted at the stolid shade 
That slept upon thy placid face. 


v. 

For thee a wilderness of hopes, 

Fairer than wind flowers in the spring, 

I buried in the uncchoing depths, 

Where drooping shadows darkness fling. 


VI. 

My recompense ? Thy cold disdain— 

Thy jealousy all passionless-— 

A squandered heart—a wasted life— 

Alone to tread the wilderness! 

EPHEMFRO.V. 

Our criminal laws are too indiscriminate and 
sanguinary. The murderer, and the wretch, 
who, prompted by want, and unrestrained by the 
precepts of example or education, destitute of the 
benefit of either, commits a theft to support ex¬ 
istence, receive an equal punishment. All these 
abuses are tolerated. Why ?—Merely to avoid 
the risk of innovation. 


| Original. 

ITHE ROBBER IN “BOOTS;” 

1 OR, THE MIDNIGHT ALARM.-BEING AN AC- 

! COUNT OF MR. VAR1AN WALLACE WELLS* FIRST 
VISIT TO THE CITY. 

ij BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LAFITTE,” “ K YD,” AND THE “ QUADROON E.** 

!j 

ji “Art thou a robber? speak I” 

|i Varian Wallace Wells was a very well 
ji born young gentleman of nineteen, at the period 
I we introduce him to the acquaintance of the 
!| reader. He had a father and a mother, as most 
j! young geutlemen have had, except those who 
|j have beeu found in Champagne baskets at 
bachelors’ front doors ! His father was an inde* 
l| pendent farmer in the county of Orange, and lived 
|J in a very pretty villa-like farm-house, within a 
!■ mile of the Hudson : his mother was a notable 
!J housewife, and by her thrift brought and kept 
| more money in the house than went out of it. 
|j She was not so modernized but that she could 
|j spin at her well-worn wheel: and, when sbort- 
ij handed, milk her own kine ! Varian was her 
only son, and she felt a maternal pride in him i 
I During his boyhood, she kept his clothes neatly 
! patched, and fed him on buttermilk and hominy! 

Varian grew thrivingly on this, and at the inte- 
| resting period in which he is now about to pro- 
I duce himself, he had got to be a tall, slim youth, 

• with an incipient beard, and a voice like a penny 
I whistle stuck inside of a French horn ! He had 
j never been away from home, but had grown up 
[i tall, green and delightfully unsophisticated ! At 
■j length, the idea entered his mother’s head, that 
!' as her son was by aud by to become the heir of 
Ij the homestead, it was necessary for him to see 
j the world and get a litile polish! 
j 44 es t” said she, taking off her spectacles and 
ij wiping them on the corner of her plain silk 
|j handkerchief, while seated one twilight in the 
door beside her lord gazing upon the Hudson, 
j. with its moving panorama of sails and steamers, 
jj“yes, husband, it's time our Varian see'd a bit 
;j 0 ^ ie w o*dd ! He’s been to school ever since he 
-jWas nine year old, and knows enough! Now 
j spose we let him go to York and make a visit! 

<!All other young gentlemen go there to finish! 
j| You are rich and Varian’s got to have all we’ve 
j got! I want him to live and spend it like a gen- 
, tleinan, for I’m sure we’ve worked hard enough 
| to make it! What say you, husband ?” 
j “ I think the boy’d be a great deal better off to 
: stay at home! These large cities are the devil’s 
‘ foundries!” 




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THE ROBBER 


I N 


“boots. 


“But Varian, the dear child, never saw a 
bigger place than Poughkeepsie, and I*want him 
to 9ee York! Come, husband, give him his 
grand-father’s old silver watch; Mr. Van Snip, 
the tailor, will soon make him a nice coat of your 
old one turned; I’ll cut and make him a waist¬ 
coat and pantaloons ! He’s got a bran new hat 
already! and I think he'll be fixed off so that 
he’ll do credit down in York to Orange county, 
and to them as born and bred him. Come, now 
«ny heart is set on it!” 

“ It’ll cost money ! He must have money, 
wife,” answered the farmer, stoutly. “ There 
has been no dividend this year.” 

“You needn’t draw money out o’ the bank. 
I’ve got a hundred dollars I’ve been savin’ up 
jist for the boy, when he should go to the city ! 
Now ’spose we let him start off next week!” 

“But suppose the boy don’t want to?” said 
Mr. Jacob Wells, taking his pipe from his mouth, 
and looking very ill-satisfied with the perseveiance 
of his better half, on this unwelcome theme ; “ I 
ha'nt heard him say any thing about it !” 

“ He does want to go ! and when I told him I 
was going to ask you if he might, the dear boy 
was so happy I wouldn’t he should miss going 
for the world !” 

“ Here he conies, let me ask him,” said Jacob, 
with pertinacious obstinacy. 

At this crisis the young gentleman made his 
appearance coming up the path leading from the 
village road. He was about five feet eleven 
inches in height, standing in his stockings, and 
a9 slender as a lad of ten. He wore a buckish 
looking black fur hat of domestic manufacture, 
purchased of the village hatter, who asserve- 
rated on his block that it was the latest Pari¬ 
sian cut! Whether this were so or not, Mr. 
Varian Wallace Wells had no opportunity of 
deciding, and without his expressing any doubt 
of the truth of Mr. Beaver's assertion, the hat 
passed into his possession! It was bell-shaped 
with an exceedingly narrow brim tastefully curl¬ 
ed up at the sides, the fur was long and waved 
richly in the wind ! It was a very singlar look¬ 
ing bat, to say the least! but the wearer was a 
very singular looking person! His hair was 
white with a tinge of yellow; perhaps some 
'folks might call it alone a faded yellow'! It 
was straight and worn long behind and at the 
•ides of the face ; for having seen two dashing 
soap-locks from Chatham street at the village inn 
who styled themselves gentlemen from New 
York, with their hair thus worn, he forthwith let 
his own strait locks grow till now they touched 


his shoulders with their brushy ends. Thi9 apt¬ 
ness at following fashions betrays, on the part of 
Mr. Varian Wallace Wells, a decided bias 
towards ultra exquisitism ! This incipient love 
of personal adornment was what probably put 
the idea into his fond mother’s head of sending 
him to the city, so that what germ of gentility 
lay covert in him might there be brought out! 
Our hero had a very light Saxon complexion, 
j white eyebrows, white eyelashes, and very light 
( blue eyes with very little expression in them, 
i His nose was short, turned up and tipped with 
piuk and down. His upper lip was long—a 
Henry Clay lip—-Heaven save the mark ! and his 
mouth looked as if, after all the rest of his face 
was completed, this feature had been made by 
drawing a knife across about two inches below 
the nose, as one would open an oyster ; to which, 
or, more correctly still, a clam, this orifice bore a 
singularly striking resemblance. He had no 
whiskers, but a promise of these distinguished 
appendages to manhood in a proper growth of 
fall hair about an eighth of an inch long all over 
his upper lip, chin, and especially that region of 
the anticipated crop, the rear part of his cheeks. 
Around a long neck he wore a green cotton cra- 
! vat carried twice round and tied in a hard knot 
| behind, the end of the knot stickmg to the right 
j and left over his waistcoat collar ;—an improve- 
I ment on the ordinary method of wearing the knot 
| in front, as anyone who has had the happiness to 
I behold it thus illustrated by this interesting young 
man, could not help seeing. He wore a round 
jacket of grey cloth which he was fast out¬ 
growing, inasmuch as three inches of the skin 
of his wrists were visible between the end of 
the cuffs and hi9 long dangling hands, while 
behind, it descended but three inches below his 
shoulder-blades. His pantaloons however were 
! gallowsed up so high as to compensate for this 
deficiency, though they left the lower part of his 
legs halfway tip the calf to suffer by this ingeni¬ 
ous expedient! but as his mother furnished him 
with long blue yarn stockings reaching above the 
knee, this brevity in the legs of hi9 trowsers was 
not of so much importance, as the stocking quilt 
covered the limbs, which with ordinary socks 
would have displayed full five inches of its brawny 
flesh! they served besides, to show to advantage his 
worthy mother’s labors with the knitting needle! 
Yet, would you, could you, can you believe it, 
dear reader! these pantaloons had straps ! Yes, 
straps, straps of green morocco leather to match 
the cravat! Straps nine inches in length down 
one side, under the foot and up the other side ! 
and fastened by a single button hole to a single 


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198 


THE ROBBER “iN BOOTS.” 


button ! They were one inch wide ! Such straps 
to such trowsers were never seen before! 

On the little finger and fore finger of each hand 
he wore certain and sundry rings, brass, gilt, paste 
and gold, thirteen in all; while the ends of his 
ehort, well-gnawed nails were delicately shaded 
by a black line beneath the edges ! The principal 
beauty of this interesting young gentleman con¬ 
sisted in a set of firm, white teeth that glittered 
like those of a lynx, though without any thing 
like ferocity. No, no! there could be no person 
better tempered or more unoffending! With all 
this outre appearance Varian Wells had a good 
share of common sense. He was no fool, though 
superlatively ignorant of the world, and gifted 
with a large share of credulity ! His bump of 
wonder was prominent; and if he had fear of any 
thing on earth it was of banditti and bloody 
pirates with black flags ornamented with death’s 
head and cross bones! Not that his experience 
had particularly led him in the way of such wick¬ 
ed people, for the greatest bandit of the region in 
which Providence bad placed him was a robber 
of hen roosts, and the bloodiest pirates young 
amateur gentlemen in boots on the Hudson fish¬ 
ing for lobsters with a fly! 

Having never been from home, our hero’s ideas 
were limited! There was not a penny paper raga¬ 
muffin in the city he was about to visit but knew 
*en times more than he knew or dreampt of. In 
brief, Mr. Varian Wallace Wells, to use a very 
expressive as well as a comprehensive word, was 
very green ! It was spring time of the year with 
him and the verdure was luxuriant! 

“Well, now,” he said seeing them both watch¬ 
ing his approach with more than usual interest; 
> 4 I should think you never see a new bell-topper 
afore! A’nt it han’some now !” and the delight¬ 
ed, youth took off his Parisian cut and placed it 
in his mother’s hand to look at for the twentieth 
time that week. 

“ It is a nice han’some one, child! Now look 
here an’ dont be thinking too much about it! 
Tell your father you want 

“ No, he shant tell, nor you shant tell him 
to tell,” cried the former; “ let me ask the boy 
myself! Your mother says you want to go to 
York a gallevantin ! A’nt home good enough ?” 

“ Yes, father I But I never seed York!” 

* 4 Nor I never seed London—and shouldn’t I 
be a fooi to go poking off there now!” 

“ But York is close by! Jerry Dibble’s been 
down with pork, and he says he want but six 
hours goin’ in the boat; and he says it’s a all nature 
big place, an’ the only way to keep from gettin 
lost in it is to have a good long string and tie on 


end to where ye start fiom when ye get ashore* 
and thendiold on the other and keep unwinding, 
and so when you want to get back again, all a 
feller’s got to do is just to follow back the string !” 

“ Lor! do tell!” ejaculated his mother with 
‘profound surprise; and half repenting in her 
j heart that she had determined to let her little son 
| go to a place where he was in such danger of 
| being lost. 

| “ Well, boy, you may go if your mother will 

fit you out,” said the old man; 44 it may cure 
{you for all your life as it did me! I hate a city! 
i I’ll give ye your fond father’s old silver watch if 
i you will go, for I suppose you must have a 
watch! You may stay two weeks, and I hope 
, when you get back you will say you have had 
enough of the city !” 

With these words the matter was settled and 
our hero’s mother began to prepare him for bis 
.departure. At the end of a week Mr. Van Snip 
( sent home his blue coat garnished with bright 
gilt buttons, and made after a fashion peculiar to 
country tailors, with a short high collar covered 
with damson colored velvet, and very long point¬ 
ed skirt with cuffs of capacious breadth ! The 
fit was admirable by comparison—for compared 
with a coat stuck on a Renovator’s cross-arms to 
show the power by which 44 old clothes w f ere 
cleaned within and made good as new,” it was a very 
admirable fit. His vest his mother cut and made 
out of a turned old brown bombazine one his 
father had worn twenty years ago and which she 
made up after the same fashion. The pantaloons 
were also cut and made by the hands of 44 his 
anxious mother,” and were so tight a fit from 
scarcity of material that his mother told him 
warningly that he must not sit down sudden, as it 
might burst ’em out! but always unbutton his 
straps first! 

The morning for his departure at length arriv¬ 
ed, and the interesting traveller, Varian Wallace 
Wells made his appearance from his room in full 
costume as above detailed, and with a green cot¬ 
ton umbrella beneath his arm. The green cra¬ 
vat was exchanged for a white one, above which 
his triangular shirt collar rose erect even with his 
ears, so that to the eye of the uninitiatied obser- 
I ver his head had the appearance of resting on it 
| by them! It was tied in a double bow in front, 
j the ends of which were spread out and displayed 
i to great advantage. His shirt-bosom was orna¬ 
mented by a huge plaited double-ruffle, as broad 
as his hand, which being well starched, stood out 
in front like the dorsal-fin of a mackerel when 
full spread. In this extraordinary ruffle was 
, stuck a green paste-pin, as large as half a dollar. 


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THE ROBBER IN “BOOT8. 


which sum it had cost his careful mother! His 
hands were encased in a new pair of white cotton 
gloves, in which his fingers kept moving and con¬ 
tracting, as if in want of room or of breath—being 
all unused to such confinement. The rings of 
his hand having interfered with the getting of 
them on, his fertile mind struck out a new expe¬ 
dient, and he had placed them on the outside 
over his gloves—a fashion as unique as it was 
convenient, and which our hero has the honor of 
originating. From his fob which his mother had ; 
made on the left side, depended his silver watch- 
chain, terminating in a huge oval cornelian seal 
and a steel key ! 

He now made his appearance to undergo the 
inspection of his parents. Old Jacob looked at j 
him, shook his head and muttered something 
about 44 good old times,” and 44 folly of modern 
days!” His mother surveyed him with maternal 
delight! She felt truly proud of her sou ! and 
truly she might, for never mother had such a ;! 
eon. I 


“Good bye, mother,” now cried the youth, 
anxious to get away, 44 I’ll lose my passage !” 

44 Well, well! I’m e’enamost sorry I let you 
go, dear! But don’t get lost now! Stop at 
the Astor House, for that’s the great place, they 
tell! Here, Variants the skein o’twine for you 
to fasten to the post soon as you gits ashore in 
York,” she said, thrusting with maternal soli¬ 
citude a hank of twine into his pocket. 

Thus accoutred and fully prepared for all 
events that might happen, our hero left the 
house and hastened to the wagon : but before he 
could get into it, his mother came running out 
with a life-preserver in her hands, the tube of 
which was in her mouth, which she was blowing 
up as hard as her breath and running would let 
her. 

44 Stop, stop, here is your life-preserver, 
Varian ! Oh, lordy lord, if you had forgot it 
now!” she cried, taking it from her mouth and 
screwing it round to retain the air. 44 Come, let 
me buckle it round you!” 


44 Don’t he look genteel and acrostic, hus¬ 
band ?” she said, walking round and round him, 
and making him turn round and round in her 
desire to have a good and thorough survey; now 
picking off a little lint here, brushing a spot 
there, pulling down in this place and hauling 
round in that place, till she had fixed him to 
her mind. 44 A’nt he a darlin now?” 

“ You’ll make a fool of the boy,” said Jacob, 
gruffly ; 44 if he’s ready, let him start off to meet 
the steam-boat at the landing! Now, Yarian, 
see you keep in good company, and don’t drink 
any thing,* nor go out nights,” said his father, 
shaking hands with him. “Good bye.” 

“God bless you, my dear baby,” cried his 
mother, throwing her arras about his neck, and 
kissing him with tears in her eyes; 44 1 hopes 
you’ll not forget your poor mother, but soon as 
you get finished up you’ll come right home 
again! Be careful of robbers; for York is a bad 
place for ’em! Be sure and keep an eye on 
your trunk, and not let ’em steal it!” 

44 Yes, marm, don’t be feared,” answered 
Varian, as his father’s ploughman, Hans Van 
Glum, took up his trunk and carried it out to the 
wagon that was to take him to the steam-boat 
which could already be seen five miles off, 
steaming down the river. 44 I’ll be back right 
soon.” 

“ Now fhat’s a good boy! Here now, is your 
pocket-book, and a hundred dollars in it; don’t 
lose it, Varian,” she added, with cautious 
warning, as she placed it in his inside coat- 
pocket, and buttoned it safely in. 


Our young gentleman, in whom so much 
maternal interest was manifested, stopped by the 
wagon and paliently lifting his arms, he stood 
with them stretched at right-angles while his 
mo 9 t anxious mother buckled it round his body 
beneath them! 

44 There, now, you’re safe if the steam-boat 
should blow up! Don’t take it off till you 
get out o’ the boat safe on the shore! Will 
you, child?” 

“No, marm,” answered the youth, 44 1 won’t.” 

“Now write as soon as you get to York.” 

44 Yes, marm, I will.” 

The youth now got into the wagon, which 
drove off towards the river, the tearful eyes of 
his mother, in whom maternal pride had proved 
stronger than maternal love, following him ’till 
he was out of sight. 

44 Dear boy, I hope he won’t get hurt nor lost, 
but come home sich a gentleman as ’ll make 
every body take off their hats to him !” 

44 1 hope he’ll come home with a little more 
common sense than he goes away with,” said 
Jacob; 44 you’ve made a fool of him, wife, by 
your fondness and weak indulgence ! It’ll be a 
good lesson for him to go from home and learn 
how to be independent and take care of himself! 
Why, the boy is afraid to go to bed in the 
dark unless you sit in his room till he falls to 
sleep!” 

44 An’ it’s natural he should be, the dear child ! 
He never bad no brothers nor sisters to keep him 
company, and it stands to natur* he should love 
his mother! I do hope he’ll not come to harm,” 


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THE ROBBER IN " BOOTS. 


“He’ll have his pockets picked, and will be 
fortunate if he comes home with his eye-teeth 
safe!” answered Jacob, going in the house to 
take his morning pipe. 

“ Well, well-a-day, York is a bad place, I 
know! But I wanted him to see the world as 
well as Judge Bailey’s sons, and Senator 
Mudge's boys ! An’ I guess he’ll come back as 
big as any on ’em now !’’ 

With this ambitious reflection, the worthy and 
simple mistress Deborah Wells look a position 
before her house from which she could command 
a view of the landing! At length, she saw the 
steam-boat touch the wharf, delay a moment to 
land and receive passengers, and put oflf on her 
downward course again! How earnestly her 
eyes followed its recediug outline, for her heart 
was on board where she believed her idol son to 
be. At length the boat was hidden from her 
view by a distant head-land, and at the same 
moment Hans, the ploughman, came back in the 
wagon. 

“And did he get on board in time, Hans?” 
she anxiously inquired, running to meet him. 

“ Yaw,” answered the taciturn Dutchman. 

“ And didn’t fall overboard!” 

“ Naw.” 

“ And did he keep his life-preserver on ?” 

“ Yaw.” 

“ And didn’t they all say, Hans, he was a nice 
young gentleman ?” 

“Naw;” and Hans went silently to work to 
take the horse out of the harness, while the soli¬ 
citous parent cast a lingering glance after the 
unseen steamer that had borne away her heart’s 
treasure, gazed tenderly an instant upon the 
cushion of the wagon where she had last seen 
him seated, and then went into the house to 
mourn over his departure, and indulge her 
numerous maternal hopes and fears! 

The appearance of our hero on board the 
steamer Swallow produced, however, a sensation 
that would have delighted his prideful mother! 
Tall, slender, ungainly, and so evidently green, 
he could not have passed on his own merits 
without attracting attention; but the additional 
bizarre of his costume ; his bell-shaped hat; his 
flashy rings over the fingers of his gloves; and 
more especially, his blown-up life-preserver 
buckled on the outside of bis coat about his 
waist, filled the passengers with no little surprise 
and curiosity. The first impression was that he 
was a humorist, acting a part; but this idea was 
instantly corrected by the gravity of his features 
and his unsophisticated looks. 

At length the boat reached New-York, and 


I our hero, bewildered and ignorant, seated himself 
! on his trunk for fear of robbers, whom he mis- t 

l t 

I took the hackmen for; and waited to see all the 
j passengers ashore, and what they did when they 
| got on shore, before leaving the boat himself. 

| He was very much afraid of doing any thing 
'wrong, or that a New-York gentleman wouldn’t 
| do; for his arrival there iuspired him with an 
ambition to be thought one of them,—knowing, 
cool, free and easy ! 

“ Hack, sir!” now shouted an Irishman, with 
a whip in his hand, close to his ear, while with ; 

j the other hand he caught hold of one end of bis 1 

j trunk. ^ 

| “ Let my trunk alone,” he cried, between alarm 

'and anger; “you needn’t think you’ll get if, 

| now.” I 

j “ Cab, sir? first rate cab, number nine hundred \ 

, and seven,” yelled another, catching hold of the 
other end of the trunk; and both lifting it up 
together, Mr. Varian Wallace Wells was toppled 
| off upon his back before he could open his lips 
to reply. He was not hurt, however, as his \ 

inflated life-preserver broke his fall! He sprung ' 

; to his feet, and seizing his umbrella swung it 
around his head and told them he would instantly 
slay them if they didn’t keep off. 

i 44 Och, and be-,” said the hackman, 44 an’ 

j he’s a picthur o’ civilization ! Divil take you J 

and your thrunk, I wouldn’t be afther having it ! 

; on the back o’ my hack for fare o’ the flays I’d I 

! have to charge passage for!” and off went Paddy I 

j in no very good humor with Mr. Varian Wallace I 

| Wells, who felt grateful that he had so fortunately 
; escaped being robbed ! 

!! 44 Now, yer honor, I beg yer honor’s pardon,” j 

jj said the cabman, keeping at a safe distance from 
;! our belligerent hero, and speaking in an apolo- 
. getic tone; 44 1 didn’t mane to let your honor on 
your honor’s back! I was only axing for the 
! lave to carry yer honor’s baggage to the hotel in 
j! my iligant cab ! for sure yer honor is’nt a poor 
j man to walk !” 

Mr. Varian Wallace Wells seemed to com¬ 
prehend the reasoning of the penitent robber, and 
, it occurred to him that it was necessary for him 
|j to have his trunk taken up to the Astor House 
!! by somebody. ' 

44 What is a cab, robber?” he inquired,though 
| without depressing his green cotton umbrella 
from its menacing elevation, 
j 44 A cab?—sure, an’ it’s a cab—an American 
jauntin’ car, yer honor! It'll take yer honor 
i and yer honor's baggage iligautly. Shall I show 
it t’your honor?” said Paddy, advancing to take 
’ up the trunk. 

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THE ROBBER IN 


BOOTS. 


201 


“Well, I’ll see it, I guess,” answered Varian 
deliberately; 14 but who’ll keep my baggage 
while I go ?” jj 

44 Oh, I’ll take it on my shoulder, an’ save the 
throuble o’ cornin’ back for it, if your honor [ 
concludes to ride.” 

44 Very true,” answered our hero, who had 
sense enough to feel the helplessness of his igno¬ 
rance in a large city, with the manners and cus¬ 
toms of which he was wholly unfamiliar. With 
him all was uncertainty, doubt and suspicion ! 
His mind was filled with stories of robberies and 
murders, and his fears and suspicions were con¬ 
tinually alive. It occurred to him that there 
might be persous appointed by the city to take 
strangers and their baggage to hotels, and that 
this was one of them ; and he had been hasty in 
supposing him to be a robber. He therefore 
permitted him to take his trunk on his shoulder, 
determined, however, to keep close to him to see 
that he didn’t run off with it; resolutely deter¬ 
mined if he attempted to do so, to beat him with!' 
his umbrella till he killed him; for to slay aj 
robber, was, in his opinion, doing the highest 
service to his country. 

The cabman, however, showed no disposition 
to run off with his trunk, and he led him to the 
spot where his cab stood by a lamp-post. 

44 Here’s the cab, yer honor,” he said, as he 
threw the trunk on the top, and opened the 
door ; 44 plase get in, and I’ll have yer honor to 
the Asthor in no time.” 

44 How did you know I was going to Mr. 
Astor’s tavern?” asked Mr. Varian Wallace 
Wells, pulling up his shirt collar. 

44 Didn’t I see yer honor was a tip-top gintle- 
man ? and don’t I know it’s the Asthor the likes 
o’ you’d be afther going to! Lave Pat for that! 
Coom yer honor, get in, and I’l